Monthly Archives: January 2012

No Such Thing as a Free Lunch

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My eighth grade science teacher was Mr. Hau.  He was tall, lanky and had brown hair and a mustache just like my dad.  Mr. Hau loved science, and he loved nature.  When the weather was nice, he’d take us out on the football field where we’d stare at patches of grass, marveling at all the things waiting to be discovered in six inches of turf, if someone actually took the time to look.  We charted the path of the sun, learned about fault lines, memorized the Periodic Table, and learned to read test tubes.  But we hardly ever opened the science textbook even though we had to bring it to class just the same, in case the principal came in and we had to act like science was boring.

Mr. Hau’s class was right before band.  In fact, every single student in the class was also in band.  The aisles of Mr. Hau’s science class were a jumble of instrument cases and sheet music.

We had to bring our instruments to class because the band room was on the other side of the building and it was hard enough to make it from science to band without being tardy.  Mr. Hau never gave tardies.  But the band teacher did.

I sat a couple rows back, on the right hand side of the class, with my flute tucked discreetly under my chair.  Nikki Schmidt, who changed her name to Nichole after she decided she was going to become a world famous supermodel, sat in the very back with the boys.  Meanwhile, Philip Doud, the first chair trumpet player and self-proclaimed king of eighth grade academia and my arch-nemesis, sat right up front.  Jesse Beuchel whose parents owned the stone quarry, sat next to Phil, not because they were friends, but because Jesse had a way of distracting the class with questions that had nothing to do with composite rocks or tectonic plates, and Mr. Hau wanted to keep an eye on him.   He had to keep his saxophone by the door so no one would trip over it.

One day, we came into class, banging into the chairs with our instruments.  Mr. Hau was writing on the board.  In loud, sloping letters he wrote: “There is NO such thing as a FREE LUNCH! “  He turned around and grinned at us, rubbing his chalky hands on his jacket.  “Okay, you might want to take notes because this is going to be on your test,” he said as he began his lecture.  Philip Doud threw me a look and dove into his backpack, digging out his power red college-ruled science notebook, and a tape recorder, just in case.

“Anyone know what this means?”  Mr. Hau pointed at the board.  I stared and pretended to look thoughtful.  I couldn’t think of one intelligent thing to say.   I was the kid poor enough to get free school lunches.   I wondered if maybe this was some kind of joke, but Mr. Hau wouldn’t make a joke like that.

Every Monday morning, the entire eighth grade lined up outside of Mr. Hau’s homeroom and purchased their lunch tickets for the week.  I lined up too, in my hand-me-down clothes and the wrong kind of tennis shoes, and every week, I prayed Mr. Hau would remember so I wouldn’t have to say it.  But when it came my turn, Mr. Hau always said, “That’ll be five dollars, Kristie,” and I had to say, in front of everyone, “Um, Mr. Hau, I get free lunch.”

“Oh, that’s right,” he smiled, making his eyes crinkle up at me just the way my dad’s used to.  He really did look a lot like my dad.  Except my dad’s eyes were blue, and Mr. Hau’s were brown.  Brown eyes can look a lot like blue when they smile, but they’re not.

Then he put down the big roll of purple lunch tickets and picked up the small roll of light blue lunch tickets.  He counted off five and handed them to me.  “See you in class!” he called as I walked away.  Light blue looks a lot like purple.  But it’s not.

Mr. Hau was waiting for an answer.  “Kristie?” He asked me.  My face went hot and I suddenly felt the intense need to cry.  “I’m not really sure,” I mumbled.  Philip Doud looked triumphant.  He already had his hand in the air.  Mr. Hau stared at me for a second.  I loved science and I loved Mr. Hau and I always had the answers if Philip Doud didn’t beat me to it.  Mr. Hau blinked, and I saw him remember.  I could tell he remembered by the way he sucked his breath in quickly and then looked away.

Philip Doud was practically writhing with knowledge.  I wanted to smack the GPA right out of him.  “It means you can’t get something for nothing,” he snorted.  “Everything costs something.  Whether in science or in economics, nothing happens without significant expenditure of energy and resources.”

Philip was right of course, and he beamed all through Mr. Hau’s presentation of the Laws of Thermodynamics.  “Everything costs something.  Nothing is free.”  Jesse Beuchel yawned.  He was wearing the new leather bomber jacket he had gotten for Christmas, and he didn’t understand how any of this applied to him.

But I knew it was true.  Everything cost something, and everything seemed to cost something more than we had.  “You’re lucky you have so much,” my mom reminded me if I complained.  There were always those African orphans to think about when I started to feel like the most economically depressed kid on the planet.  I tried, but I hated those hand-me-downs, and I hated those light blue lunch tickets even more.

When the bell rang, I gathered up my books and my flute.  Mr. Hau was waiting for me by the door.  “I’m sorry,” he said.  “I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”  He looked worried, and that made it worse.  Ever since my dad died, teachers felt like they needed to worry about me.

“I know,” I said, staring as Nichole’s perfect head bobbed by.  I wished my jeans were long enough to roll up the way she did.

“Can I tell you something?” he went on.

“Sure,” I said, seeing a band tardy in my future.

Mr. Hau read my mind and grinned.  “I’ll write you a note,” he said.

Then Mr. Hau sat down on the edge of a front row desk and folded his hands over his knee.  “I teach this lesson every year,” he said, “and every year, I wonder if anyone really gets it.  So it’s important to me that you understand something: Most people have much more then they deserve, but they think they deserve much more than they have.”

I thought about my hand-me-down clothes and swallowed hard.  I hoped he wasn’t going to start talking about Africa.

“I want to show you a picture of my son,” Mr. Hau was saying as he got out his wallet.  I didn’t know Mr. Hau had a son, but there I was staring at a picture of a boy about my age.  He had brown hair like Mr. Hau, but his face was all screwed up and contorted and only one side of his mouth smiled in the picture.

“This is my boy, Peter.  Something happened when he was born.  The doctors told us that Peter probably wouldn’t live past a year, but he beat the odds!  I told you that everything cost something, remember?  And do you know what it cost to keep my son alive?  It cost my wife staying up with him every night, making sure he didn’t stop breathing, it meant surgeries and trips to the doctor and wiping the spit off his mouth.  It meant changing his diapers even when he wasn’t a small boy anymore.  It meant selling our house and moving into a small apartment so we could afford his medical bills.  It meant listening to him screaming whenever he had to ride in the car, and never, ever hearing him say ‘mom’ or ‘dad.’

“I used to feel kind of sorry for myself, and I was a little jealous of the dads who got to teach their sons how to throw a ball or build a fire.  But then one day, a new doctor looked at Peter and he said it was a miracle that Peter was alive at all.  And I finally got it.  I had so much more than I deserved, and all I had been thinking about was the fact that I didn’t have what I wanted.  If I’d gotten what I wanted, I wouldn’t have had my Peter, and if I didn’t have Peter, I wouldn’t be the man I am today.”

He was quiet for a minute, but then the second bell rang and Mr. Hau jumped a little and stood up.  He smiled at me again.  He really does look a lot like my dad, I thought.

“Ah, you’re going to be really late for band, and I’m going to hear about it if I don’t let you go!”  He scribbled a note on a pad of paper and handed it to me, but he held on to it when I took it.

“It’s hard to do without, and it’s hard not to compare yourself to others.  Believe me, I know.  But if you have anything in your life that is good, consider it a gift.  Don’t go around demanding more.  Just be grateful.” 

Then he let go of the note and winked at me, “Study hard for the test, okay?  It would kill Philip if you beat him on it!”

I did study for the test, and I aced it.  Philip Doud cried real tears until Jesse Beuchel punched him in the arm.  Mr. Hau had written in red pen at the top of my page, “Great job!  Now, don’t FORGET!”

I didn’t forget.  To this day, I still remember those words.  But that’s more than I can say for Mr. Hau.  Every Monday, when I came up to his desk to get my lunch tickets, he looked at me and said, “That’s five dollars, Kristie.”

“I still get free lunch, Mr. Hau,” I tried to whisper.

With a mischievous grin, he would rip off five light blue tickets, lean over and whisper, “There’s no such thing!”

 

Spinach and Black Bean Burgers with Chipotle Aoli

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For dinner tonight, I decided to work on my on-going veggie burger recipe.  I love the idea of a veggie burger, but I haven’t been able to find a recipe that I like that doesn’t have ingredients that I don’t want (like cheese and bread crumbs).   I keep working on it, though, because I’m determined to get it right.  Tonight, it all worked.  The veggie burgers were tasty, moist, and flavorful.  I served them on warm Honey Rosemary Focaccia fresh from the oven, topped with avocado slices and a chipotle aoli for the grownups and homemade mayo for the kiddos (although they would have been just as happy with ketchup!).  I only wish our backordered camera was here so I could show you how pretty they were!

Here are the recipes.  I’ll also list them individually in the recipes section for future reference.  Enjoy!

Spinach and Black Bean Veggie Burgers

2 c. black beans, rinsed and dry (this equals 1 15 oz. can), room temperature

2 c. leftover brown rice, room temperature

1/3 c. dried mushroom powder*

1 t. smoked paprika

1 t. sea salt

1 egg, beaten

½ c. onion, finely chopped

1 garlic clove, crushed

1 t. olive oil or butter

2 c. fresh spinach

*Dried mushrooms can be found in most grocery stores (look in the produce section).  Simply grind them into a powder using a spice mill, food processor, or blender.  Dried baby portabellas are what I used in this recipe.  It took three to make 1/3 cup.  You may use any kind of dried mushroom you like.

In a small skillet, sauté the onion and garlic in the oil or butter until translucent and fragrant.  Snip the spinach into small pieces with a kitchen shears.  Toss into the onion mixture and sauté until just wilted.  Set aside to cool.  In a large bowl, mash the black beans with a fork.  Add the cooked brown rice, seasonings, spinach mixture, and beaten egg.  Stir until well combined.  Using a generous ¼ c. measure, form the mixture into patties and sauté them in a hot, oiled skillet or frying pan, about 4 minutes per side.  Be gentle when turning; if the patties begin to separate, simply press them back together as they cook.  They will firm up somewhat as they cool.  Serve on focaccia squares or buns, with avocado slices and chipotle aoli, or whatever toppings your family enjoys!   Makes 10 small burgers.  Leftovers freeze beautifully!

Note: You may add up to 1 c. of cheese to this recipe.  I chose not to do so because we try to limit the amount of cheese we consume, and I wanted to have a recipe that worked for my dairy-free and gluten-free friends without any adjustments.

Honey and Rosemary Focaccia

1 ½ c. whole wheat flour

1 ½ c. unbleached white flour

2 T. active dry yeast

½ c. warmed kefir (or water), no hotter than 110 degrees, plus more as needed

2 t. raw honey

3 T. olive oil

2 T. fresh minced rosemary

1 t. salt, plus more for sprinkling on top

Pepper

In a mixer bowl, add yeast and honey to warm water.  Stir to dissolve the yeast.  Add olive oil.   Slowly incorporate flours, salt, and rosemary.  If necessary, add a little more water until the dough comes together in a ball.  Allow the mixer to need the dough until smooth and elastic (it should spring back when you press it).  Allow the dough to rest and rise for about 30 minutes.  It does not need to double in size.  Once the dough has rested, press into the bottom of an oiled 9×13 pan, dimpling the top with your fingers as you press.  Brush with a touch more olive oil, if desired.  Sprinkle the top of the dough with sea salt and pepper.  Bake at 400 degrees until the edges begin to brown, about 20-25 minutes.  Cut into wedges and serve warm.

Chipotle Aoli

1 egg, plus 1 egg yolk, room temperature

¾ c. extra virgin olive oil

1 whole canned chipotle pepper in sauce (look for it next to the salsa at your grocery store)

1 garlic clove

1 T. whey (optional; it helps to prolong the life of the product)

pepper

½ t. salt

In a blender, combine egg and yolk until creamy.  With the blender running on high, slowly stream in the olive oil, being careful not to pour too quickly or the oil and egg won’t emulsify.   Once the aoli is creamy, add the whole chipotle pepper, garlic, whey (if desired) and seasonings.  Taste and adjust seasonings accordingly.  Keep in an airtight container in the refrigerator for up to 2 weeks (more if whey has been added).

Enough Snow

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Today it snowed for the first time all winter.  Big, fluffy, apologetic snowflakes tumbled out of the sky.   Even though the kids have complained for weeks about the lack of snow, all was forgiven in an instant.  There was enough snow to make children forget how long they’d been waiting.

The kids grabbed their coats and mittens and begged to wear the snow pants that have been collecting dust since last winter, even though the dusting of snow on the grass hardly required a trip down to the storage room to find them.  Do they still fit?  Look how you’ve grown!  Do we have enough for everyone?  There was enough snow for snow pants.

Out the door they scampered, giggling and wrestling and pushing their way to the yard.  There was enough snow on the cars to make a snowball just the right size to smack a sister in the face, enough snow coming down to wet a few curious tongues, and enough snow on the hill for an attempt at sledding with the brand-new cherry red Artic Wolf Snow Disc we picked up on clearance at Walmart last March.

Before long, it was decided that the thing to do on a snowy day like this was to build a Snow Fort of Awesome before beginning the Snowball Fight of the Century.  With the help of a slew of neighbor kids, construction began.  All available snow was collected from deck rails, windshields, and sidewalks.  It was piled high in the middle of the yard and rolled into balls which quickly formed sides.  But, it’s hard to make a Snow Fort of Awesome with less than an inch of snow.   Not to mention the fact that there wasn’t any snow left for making snowballs.

But there was enough snow to make a make a ramp into the yard for the sled, and enough snow to wrestle in, and enough snow to give a friend a good, cold face wash.   There was enough snow to make fresh tracks with underused boots, and enough snow to outline the branches of every sleeping tree.

Then, just like that, it was over.  The fluffy flakes stilled and blue sky appeared through the grey clouds.  The neighbor kids headed home and the sled was put away.  There wasn’t enough snow for a proper snowman, and there wasn’t enough snow to cancel church in the morning.

But there was enough snow to make cheeks rosy, enough snow to make hot chocolate a necessity, and enough snow to make an ordinary Saturday afternoon feel like Christmas.  There was enough snow to make five children very happy.

Fasting for Health, Part 1

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Fasting.  It’s a scary word for me.  Like most people, I find comfort in food and refuge in eating.  I don’t like to be hungry.  As a matter of fact, I rarely allow myself to feel hunger because I eat like a bird (in other words, constantly).  When I think about going without food for a day or two, or, dare I say three, my palms get sweaty and my heart beats a little faster.   I feel a little panicky.

Still, I’ve done a few fasts in the past, always for spiritual reasons.  It is difficult for me every time, but yet rewarding and even nourishing.   I rarely fast longer than a day or two.  Once, and only once, my husband and I did a complete fast for five days.   It was both one of the most amazing and most excruciating five days of my life.  Because it was so challenging, I have never had a desire to repeat that experience!

Recently, however, I’ve become open to the idea of lengthy fasting for health reasons.  Fasting stimulates your body’s natural healing abilities and prompts the production of beneficial growth hormones.  It draws on your fat reserves, which are a holding tank for toxins and a storage place for any viruses or diseases you have been exposed to over your lifetime.  Any prescription drugs or antibiotics you’ve ever taken, or any vaccines you’ve ever been given, also leave a trace in your body.

Fasting cleanses your body of this buildup, stripping down fat cells and releasing toxins.  It gives your digestive tract a chance to rest from the daily work of digesting your food so it can focus on healing itself and dealing with the glut of unaddressed issues your body has been ignoring.

It might be helpful to think of your body like an e-mail in-box.  Every day, it receives more messages than it can respond to, so every day, the inbox gets more and more backed up.  Your body prioritizes by responding to the most important e-mails, but every day, it gets more and more sluggish because it can’t keep up.   By stopping the flow of new messages coming in, your body can deal with, and purge, the backlog of SPAM, forwards, and advertisements that clog up and slow down the server.

However, most of us never give our bodies this opportunity for rest.   Instead, we treat everything from illnesses to aging by sending more messages into our bodies.  We add supplements, exercise, meditation, super foods, lotions and potions in an effort to get our bodies to work (and look) the way we think they should.  And while these things may be beneficial, they don’t address the real problem.  If you have a back-up in your e-mail, adding more memory to your computer is not going to fix it.

What our bodies need is a break.  A rest.  A chance to catch up, recoup, and restore.  If given the opportunity to do this, our bodies will amaze us with their ability to heal themselves.

But when it comes to fasting, few of us are willing to take the plunge.  Self-denial is not something we Westerners value.  Giving something up feels a little too much like sacrifice, too much like a hardship.  We think it requires more self-control than we have, and we worry that it might hurt.

Even when we know that a temporary denial will bring long-term gain, we resist.   We are willing to add things in, but please, let’s not talk about taking them away.

As I began to read and think about fasting, I realized that  I was not willing to suffer any kind of real discomfort for the sake of my health.  After all, I don’t need to lose weight and I’m not suffering from any dread diseases (that I know of).  So if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it, right?

Of course this isn’t true.   Periodic resting and cleansing is good for everyone, even those of us who don’t think we “need” it.

With that in mind, I decided to take on a three-day fast.  My husband, who is a chaplain in the Army Reserves, will be gone next weekend for duty.   This provides the perfect opportunity for me to fast.   In fact, he’s gone one weekend a month, so I’m considering making this fast a routine thing.  But we’ll see how this one goes first!

I have decided to do a juice fast since I don’t need to lose weight and because I need to keep up my energy for chasing after all these kids!   In order to maximize the effectiveness of the fast, I’m preparing my body now.  I know I drink more coffee than I should, and I don’t want to suffer withdrawals during the fast, so I’m cutting back now.   This is something I should have done a long time ago.

Secondly, I’m eating a raw food diet until the fast, and for a few days afterward.  This will help to cleanse my digestive tract and provide my body with lots of nutrients, including necessary enzymes, which my body will need to heal itself during the fast.   I will be posting blog updates during the fast so you can see how it goes!  Perhaps you will even consider joining me.  If you do, please be sure to let me know so we can encourage each other in the journey.

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My Least Favorite Chore

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I bet Williams-Sonoma likes to make stock

Today my to-do list included the following item: Make Turkey Stock.   Actually, it was on my to-do list yesterday as well, but after I had crossed off every other item (including Pay Bills and Catch up on Laundry), the Turkey Stock remained.  I decided to procrastinate.  After all, you can’t very well start making turkey stock at 9 o’clock at night, right?

But you can only ignore a turkey carcass for so long.  After all, it takes up half my refrigerator.   So as the new day dawned, I knew it was inevitable: today was the day.  I could no longer avoid his picked-over presence.

Of all my domestic duties, making turkey stock is one of my least favorite.  There’s something about getting up to my elbows in turkey grease that makes me feel like a culinary martyr.  Boiling the rich marrow and gelatin out of the bones and separating all the fat and skin from every scrap of useful meat sounds very frugal and sustainable and healthy.  I love the idea of having all that marvelous broth measured out into containers and stacked up neatly in my freezer.  I can think up a million dinners I’m going to make with the meat I’ve scavenged off the bones.

But.  I.  Hate.  Doing.  It.

I don’t like the smell of the turkey, and I don’t like the fat, and I absolutely hate all the stringy tendons and membranes and bits of turkey anatomy that I can’t quite identify once it’s been brined and roasted and sliced and served and eaten before making its way to my stock pot.  I don’t like the mess of pots and pans and strainers and containers that litter my kitchen every time there’s a turkey to dismantle.  I dread skimming turkey fat off the top of the stock, and I never quite know what to do with the leftover bones.

I think I’m going to become a vegetarian.

Instead, I have to “mom up” and do what needs to be done.   That’s what we moms do, after all.  Countless times every day, we do what needs to be done even when we’d rather do something else.   At least until our children are big enough that we can call it a “chore” and make them do it.   This, incidentally, is my long-term solution to the turkey carcass problem.

Since my only child of turkey deconstructing age was conveniently preoccupied with some excuse she called The Fourth Grade, I had to do this job myself.  So after I cleaned out the cat box and organized my cupboard of plastic storage containers and vacuumed the blinds, I got right on that turkey with nary a thought to putting it off a moment longer.

I stood by the kitchen counter, tryptophan oozing through my veins, and I thought to myself, this is how polygamy got started.  Some guy came home and found his wife picking meat off a turkey and he said to her, “Wouldn’t it be great if you had some help with that?” and WHAM!  She found herself sharing a last name with some gal from town who liked to boil things.

It’s not a bad idea, really.  If there was another wife around here I’d definitely let her make the turkey stock while I educated myself on various herbs that may or may not be poisonous in order to concoct some homemade teas which may or may not be fatal if consumed by a second wife who may or may not live to regret ever having come in contact with my husband.

But I’d let her finish the stock first.   After all, it is my least favorite chore, and second wives don’t come around every day.