On Life As A Picky Foodie

May 20th, 2012: Been So Long, I Almost Forgot (and links to the recipes I promised some people today)

Mon, 21 May 2012 02:40:00 GMT

Well, not really. Forget. That is. On the contrary, there is this niggling voice in the back of my head that keeps saying "Blog. Blog. You need to blog." I go about my days and my evenings in the hopes of finding a little moment. But it doesn't seem to appear.

Today was my daughter's second birthday.

Last night, when we asked her what she wanted for her birthday, she thought about it.

"Umm," she said pressing her lips together, "puddles."

The sun was shining, so we have promised her puddles for another day. Instead, we said, would she like a party. (luckily, she nodded at this proposal)

We decided to put her candles in some watermelon (or "avavava" as she calls it) instead of cake. My cakes are different. My cakes are funny. They have no flour in them, no sugar, no eggs. So I preferred to put them out with less ceremony in case the heat got to them before we remembered the candles. Also, Vida Lev doesn't really like cake.

Once in a while, she'll have "Pooding" -- awesome banana soft serve as per Choosing Raw (seriously, Gena wasn't kidding when she wrote "this post will change your life") -- and tons of fruit. But that's about it when it comes to sweet things.

DW and I discussed it and figured why start her early on a path she isn't the least bit interested in? Which birthday Gods decreed that it shall henceforth be so?

However, when an eight-year-old friend saw this, he was quite taken aback. "But you have to do it in the cake!" he cried.

"Why?" I asked

"Because." He said.

I could write so much about that little tiny interaction. But I won't. Not tonight. Tonight I will savour our wonderful afternoon in the sun with old friends and new friends in celebration of the most magical being I have ever encountered.

The menu was, as one guest put it, "healthy." I don't know, to me, it was just a picnic, filled with lovely things:

watermelon and grapes

Guacamole and blue corn chips

baby carrots and Faux Gras, kindly donated by Ms. Regal Vegan.

and a couple of Picky Foodie favourite sweet treats: raw carrot cake and Coconut Royals

And "Bonoons" (Balloons). And "Wolly Pollies" (rolling down grassy hills). And dancing just because we feel like it.

As a sweet post script, I loved that we couldn't find anyone with matches to light the candles in the watermelon. Because nobody smokes anymore, ha ha! (and if you remember my pack-and-a-half-a-day-habit, you've probably known me for close to a decade at this point)

Happy Birthday, mi Vida. Thank you for blessing us every day.

OMG it's March (4th) already! Winner of the cookbook giveaway & a Wacky Tahini Recipe

Mon, 05 Mar 2012 02:44:00 GMT

Hello Peeps --

I simply can't believe it's March already. It's madness, I tell you.

First of all, I'd like to congratulate Liz, the winner of our giveaway! Liz, please send me your email address via The Picky Foodie Contact sheet and we can take it from there. I do hope you enjoy Parents Need to Eat Too -- let me know.

Secondly... hmm... OK... well...

I have something to tell you...

There’s this thing, you see...

I make it thick and dip caramelized sweet potato wedges in it.

I thin it out with lemon juice or water and it dresses my salads well enough to conquer New York by night.

Or I grab my spoon and snack on it straight out of the jar.

The thing with this thing is that I can never make enough. It seems I am constantly whipping up a batch only to make another because, well, this stuff goes fast around here.

In case you’re wondering, the family doesn’t eat this quite like I do. It’s just me, alone, with a spoon and this stuff, or a knife to spread it nice and thick, or a big big bowl of beautiful greens, ready to get gussied up. Or a sprouted corn tortilla, a sheet of nori, a celery stick.

Tahini is its nutty, wonderful self.

Miso adds a touch of earthiness.

And apple – cider and vinegar – make it sweet and tangy.

Then we wrap it all up with a nice green cilantro bow for a little left-field depth.

And Bob’s your uncle (or Eric in my case, and I think he’ll like it too)

This isn’t your average little concoction. It’s rich as an eighties Wall Street Banker, and comforting like when you come home from a long winter hike and someone’s gotten the fire going in anticipation of your return. It might seem a little strange at first, as if the tastes don’t quite know what to do with one another, but I dare you to stop after a few tastes. My friend tried it, and while she declared, “this is weird,” she did so while helping herself for the third or fourth time.

Spread it, pour it, drink it. It’s healthy enough to indulge in and decadent enough to enjoy regardless of how normally eat.

Then comment below, tell me what you think. And please, be honest. I’d love to know.

Tahini Miso Spread

Ingredients:

½ cup fresh cilantro, finely chopped (or ¼ cup dried – leaves, not seeds or powder)

1/3 + ¼ cup tahini (I know, weird, but it works)

½ cup apple cider

2 T miso

1 T apple cider vinegar

¼ cup fresh lemon juice

1 T water

Directions:

Start by combining 1/3 cup tahini with the apple cider, the vinegar, the lemon juice and the water. Stir it all together with a fork until the mixture is creamy and smooth. Then add the miso and the additional tahini and repeat. You can thin it out until the desired texture is obtained.

February 18th, 2012: Parents Need to Eat Too (CookBooking Picky Foodie Style)

Mon, 21 May 2012 01:53:00 GMT

How do you use cookbooks?

Some have them stacked high on their bedside table, like fiction, others draw on them like Cliff Notes, without getting too involved. Personally, I tend to turn to them for inspiration. Such as when I find myself at a loss with a specific ingredient: when my tomatoes are suddenly all overripe I’ll hit the books to see what people like Alice Waters, Ani Phyo or the guys at Moro do.

Many people think I only have raw or vegan cookbooks on my shelves. Those people are wrong, wrong, wrong. In fact, I love “regular” cookbooks as much as I love sitting next to people eating all the things I can’t. For the record, if we ever go out for a meal together, please don’t skimp on ordering exactly what you want. Don’t assume I’ll suffer because I can’t taste your French toast or your double bacon cheeseburger. I won’t. I don’t. Because what’s more pleasurable than watching people enjoy, truly enjoy their food? (and, believe me, if you felt as nasty as I do after eating that stuff, you wouldn’t miss it either)

But back to cookbooks. I love cookbooks. I love reading about all the ways other people have found to combine ingredients. To me, recipes are like paintings: each artist has their own style and it’s wonderful to not only study and analyze, but also, to the extent that it is possible, try things for myself.

Of course, as the Picky Foodie, it can get a little tricky. With all of my restrictions, it is rare that I can actually eat all that a dish calls for. However, if I’m honest, the thing is, I’m convinced that even if I could eat everything under the sun, I don’t know how good I’d be at actually following recipes.

Whenever I try to follow a recipe, I think back to the time when I made Congo Bars with my grandmother. She was recovering from a broken hip and so we agreed that, because she wasn’t able to stand or move around, I would be the one actually putting the ingredients together. It was easy, she said, all I needed to do was follow the recipe…

Oy Vey.

Let’s just say, it’s a wonder she’s still speaking to me!

And to be fair, my grandmother’s Congo Bars are, to my mind, proof of the existence of a higher power. I think her magic ingredient, however, has nothing to do with the ingredients though I’m sure she would disagree.

But anyway.

A few weeks ago, Debbie Koenig, a fellow food blogger and mother, announced that her cookbook, Parents Need to Eat Too (isn’t that a great title?) was coming out. I was so excited for her and looked forward to getting my hands on it. Parents Need to Eat Too, is geared towards new parents. It covers everything from slow-cookers (an absolute necessity), to quick dishes you can make during nap time, to lactogenic foods that support breastfeeding and even one-handed jobs (when you can’t put down the baby).

This book is chock-full of information, tips and tricks – how to make grown-up food more baby friendly, time-savers for the busy parent, recipes for kitchen-illiterate partners, foods to help increase and reduce milk production, how much sugar is too much for babies. And did I mention the great slow cooker section?

But then, of course, came the real question: was I going to find anything Picky Foodie friendly?

They say you need to follow a recipe at least once so you know what it’s supposed to taste like before changing anything. And I resolved to do just that. Or at least give it my best shot.

Parents Need to Eat Too is pretty animal product heavy – so those bits were not for me, though many of the recipes do sound delicious. It also relies quite a lot on gluten grains and there’s a lot of dairy involved. However, there is a nice range of pulse-dishes, most of them ethnic-flavoured, though Debbie, with her characteristic sense of humour and candour, admits she’s not aiming for authenticity. I decided to attempt one of those.

In London, I crave curry. In the Middle East, it’s Mjadra. Since arriving in the US, I’ve been wanting chilli. So although I flirted with a good few of the slow cooker recipes like the Potato, Split Pea and Cauliflower Dahl and the Moroccan Red Lentil Stew (have I mentioned the slow cooker?), I settled on the sweet potato and homini chilli.

I tried to follow the recipe. Believe me, I did. And, surprisingly, I succeeded for the most part.

There were cans involved – many more than I’m used to -- but then again, as a Mom, I’ve become more open to making use of these helpful time-savers.

Here’s the bottom line: while I agree that parents might need to eat too, the mark of a good recipe isn’t whether the adults like it. Only if the little person gobbles it up, can a meal be deemed a success.

And Gobble she did.

With leftovers.

Which disappeared quite quickly but were ample enough to take the pressure off for at least one, if not two additional meals.

So it was a win-win-win. Or as they say in French, tout le monde a gagne!

Parents Need to Eat Too comes out this week. If you pre-order a copy before the official launch on Tuesday you'll also get the free Digital Starter Kit, which includes extra recipes and other bonuses.

If you'd like to know more about Debbie, check out her site here. Alternatively, you can watch this YouTube video about the book.

But here’s the good news: I’m giving away a copy! Yes, it’s the Picky Foodie’s very first giveaway!!!!

To enter, please leave a comment telling me how you use recipes, whether you try to follow them to the letter, whether you, like me, find it is somehow against your religion, or whether you are somewhere in between… I’d love to know! A winner will be picked at random, to be announced on March 1^st.

January 12th, 2012: A GF, Vegan Apple Spice Loaf Recipe

Fri, 13 Jan 2012 03:20:00 GMT

Happy 2012 everyone!

There's a book I love to read to Vida Lev. In it, the world becomes a relatively small, very nature-oriented planet where the birth of a child is passed on from creature to creature until gradually everyone is ready to welcome a new being onto this earth. Beautiful, no? And about as far away from our technocratic, virtual world as it's possible to be.

We live far removed from one another and while physical distance is easier to bridge than ever -- my daughter knows the word Skype already, and knows that it means we will be seeing her grandmother on the computer screen -- local relationships sometimes feel trickier to manage.

The other day, a woman I follow on twitter was commenting how distant she feels from her Facebook friends. I have to admit that I completely understand her. My Facebook page is personal and everyone on there are people I have met face to face and have felt some kinship to at one point or another -- from pre-school to high school, from El Salvador to Ojai, these are people I supposedly know.

And yet, I often find these "friends" and I have little in common. Sometimes I am even offended by their postings -- apparently, in addition to lovely and kind people, I am also "friends" with fascists, bigots, racists and chauvinists. (I'm shuddering right now, by the way.)

When I was first introduced to twitter, I rejected it completely. Enough, I said, no more social media. But seeing as The Picky Foodie won't grow legs and walk the earth without some help, I decided to give it a shot. And the results were astounding. Though I haven't met most of my twitter peeps -- with some wonderful exceptions like the delightful Molly of The Particular Kitchen and Mona of Wise Words -- I find we have so much more in common than I do with so many of my "friends" on Facebook.

Today is my three-month veganiversary. While many assume I have been vegan for yonks, I wasn't ready to take the official step until this year, October 12th, to be exact. My 35th birthday. Will I be vegan forever? Who knows! But for now, I'm enjoying the feeling of not eating animal products (with the exception of the occasional bit of honey), experimenting with plant-based proteins, and eating in a way that is more in line with my values.

While I took this step on my own, I have found inspiration in so many blog posts, recipes and experiences shared by the people I have found on twitter. What can I say? It does truly take a village. Here are my 3 faves:

- Gena Hamshaw at Choosing Raw -- hilariously, when I went to her website to double check the spelling of Gena's last name, I found a recent recipe for a similar kind of bread and just like me, she found that while the loaf is good, it's probably closer to the taste of a health-food-foodie (in fact, I think I'll try hers next). Nutritionist, future super-power MD, Gena is a wiz in the kitchen and knows truck-loads about health as well as recovering from Eating Disorders. Love her!

- Seyward Rebhal's Bonzai Aphrodite -- totally fabulous, totally fun, totally unique, totally vegan. I return to this site again and again, for inspiration and because Seyward is just totally awesome.

- Kris Carr's Crazy Sexy website-- This woman has makes living with incurable disease look glamorous. She's the rock star of healing with food and healthy living. Think attitude isn't important when it comes to kicking Cancer's ass? Check out Kris, her amazing story and her wonderfully informative website.

Through these and other sites I visit regularly, I will occasionally stumble on a one-off wild card recipes by people I haven't heard of before. Blog posts passed and retweeted, about foods and recipes I'm delighted to play with as well. And so too with the original recipe for this moist apple bread by Wendakai. In my gluten-free, mostly grain-free life, I sometimes crave bread and sometimes long for cake. This recipe falls somewhere between sweet and mildly savory, between bread and cake. Does that make it a loaf?

Anyway, the first mouthful took me back to the night I gave birth to Vida Lev. After we had cleaned up, my baby had fed for the first time and we were all happily cuddling in bed, Elke and Sandesh, the amazing midwives, asked me what I wanted to eat. By then it was one in the morning and I hadn't had any food for close to twelve hours. "Be careful what you ask for," Elke said, "because you will remember this for the rest of your life." She was right: the slice of toasted bread DW had baked for me the day before with almond butter and fig spread is something I still dream of.

And when this lovely little loaf came out of the oven, as my beautiful daughter slept in the next room, I slathered a nice slice in almond butter and topped it with fig spread and a touch of nostalgia.

May this year bring health, happiness, joy and may you dance in the sunshine.

With love,

Gabriela

Gluten Free, Vegan Apple Spice Bread

1 c whole garfava flour (a mixture of garbanzo and fava bean flour available from Bob's Red Mill)

1/2 c millet flour

1/4 c almond flour

2 t gluten free baking powder

1 1/2 t cinnamon

1/2 t ginger powder

1/2 c date sugar

2 T mesquite (optional)

1/4 t sea salt (optional)

1 flax egg (if you need instructions on how to properly make one, Bonzai Aphrodite has great instructions here)

3/4 c apple sauce

juice of 1 lemon (about 1/4 c)

1/2 c water

Instructions: Preheat the oven to 350 Fahrenheit (about 175 Centigrade)

In a large bowl, mix the dry ingredients: flour, baking powder, spices, salt

Add the wet ingredients and mix well.

Bake for about 50 minutes.

This loaf if great toasted though, as I mentioned before, it might not be for everyone.

There's a great story of my mother, who has always baked "different" (read: healthy) things, taking a zucchini bread to a picnic once. The husband of a friend of hers couldn't get enough of it -- he just loved it. Until my mother told him what it was made of and he found he suddenly didn't like it anymore.

Afterwards he politely requested that my mother never reveal what she put in her lovely baked goods again.

December 18th, 2011: A Crap Day and a Green Smoothie Recipe

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 02:36:00 GMT

Have you noticed that when you feel like crap, it’s sometimes easier to keep falling down that rabbit hole rather than picking yourself up and going in the direction of feeling better?

As the Holidays strike, I’m flabbergasted at how different this time of year is in New York from London. First of all, only one – yes one – person has told me about being hungover this entire month! This is quite a change from last year’s December, which I affectionately dubbed National Hangover Month in the UK.

Then there is the shopping/gift giving extravaganza which, while manic in both places, seems just ever so slightly more absolutely over-the-top insane in the US.

No matter where you are, however, ‘tis unavoidably the season to reflect on the year that’s past and project onto what’s to come.

Which brings me to this: today sucked. It did. Not a little bit, not could have been better. No. Today was just crap. It happens. And the trick, I find, is to hall my buttocks out of it as quickly as I can.

What does this have to do with the Holiday Season? Well, in my experience, people complain about how much they eat, how little they move, how irritating family is over the holidays. And they vow to change everything from their fitness level to their marital status to the circumference of their waist in the coming year.

By the time January rolls around the salespeople at your local friendly gym are ready to embrace you with open arms. And for a few weeks, everyone’s resolutions are steadfast. We eat only greens and (for non-vegans) poach our eggs instead of frying them. We head to the treadmill with religious zeal. And we make up with everyone we hated just two weeks before. Why not, right? It’s a new year after all!

Then February hits… And come March, we’re back where we started only without a big milestone like New Year to declare the first day of the rest of our lives.

Today was a bad day. If tomorrow is one too, chances are the next day will be more challenging than if tomorrow is better. So how to stop this from spiralling further downwards?

Start by taking stock, face what sucks: the pain, the fear, the sadness, the crap. Try to take just a few minutes to look back and realize what went wrong, what felt wrong, and how wrong wrong actually was.

Then try to forget about it, go do something you love – recharge those batteries. For me, this is writing. I sit at the computer and… well, I could write a blog post, for example. Or email someone I love. Take a bath, sip something soothing, go for a walk.

Take a moment to set an intention for the next day. This could be esoteric and vague or super concrete: you can simply hope for laughter or you can plan hour-by-hour – whatever works for you and in your circumstances. For example, tomorrow, I’m planning to enjoy a long bike ride. The thought of breathing in all that fresh air and cycling over the Brooklyn Bridge is already lifting my spirits.

Lastly, try not to take it out on the people closest to you. For me, this is DW. DW who came home early to help, DW who is doing the dishes as I type, DW who wants, more than anything, for me to be happy. Never forget, the people who love you are on your team, they’re on your side.

So as the Holidays approach and the family closes in, or the loneliness stings a little more, how about taking a moment to plan how NOT to fall off the wagon by starting to treat yourself well NOW?

And with that in mind, here’s some seasonal green smoothie greatness to savour and enjoy.

Cranberry Parsley Green Smoothie

1 cup fresh or frozen cranberries

1 banana

1 cup apple juice

½ bunch or a handful of parsley

1 t pumpkin pie spice

1 date

3 t freshly squeezed lemon juice

Start by blending the first three ingredients until smooth. Then add the rest and blend, once again, until smooth.

To your health!

December 9th, 2011: A New Generation (of Picky Foodie) and a non-pie pumpkin recipe

Fri, 09 Dec 2011 03:49:00 GMT

Wouldn’t it be lovely if we all enjoyed healthy foods?

Wouldn’t it be even lovelier if our children ate what we feel is healthiest with joy and pleasure and ease?

In my experience, they can and do… sometimes.

Recently, Debbie from Words to Eat By, one of my favourite Mum food bloggers came out and admitted that while she is all about the food, her little one sometimes has other ideas. Quite courageous on her part!

It got me thinking about what I eat and how it has evolved to include this little person with a lot of big opinions.

Let’s think up an example. Like, maybe, I don’t know… green smoothies. Vida Lev used to love them. I’d put everything from kale to coriander (cilantro) in there. Spinach? No problem! Chard? Bring it on! And berries and chlorella or spirulina -- even hemp seeds made an occasional appearance. If you’re a Mom and you’ve asked me for advice about feeding your kid(s) – or even if you’re not but we’ve chatted nutrition -- chances are, I’ve thrown a green smoothie at you in one form or another.

Hell, green smoothies are my breakfast almost every morning.

Sadly, not for Vida Lev. No more. This week, she said “non” for the first time – a clear, decisive, no-friggin’-way: “nonononononononon, uh uh, non non”. While her ability to verbalize is brand new, she’s been pursing her lips and shaking her head for quite a while. And green smoothies were one of the first things to get the thumbs down.

At first I was freaked out. But seeing as we’ve decided to trust Vida Lev to let us know her preferences from the first food she put into her mouth (cucumber), I figured I’d keep riding the wave and see where it led.

So far, we’ve had the mushroom phase, the cooked onion phase, the avocado phase(s), the apple and pear months, the nori phase that has yet to end. There were a couple of banana days and kelp noodle nights. And, of course raisins – those never seem to go out of style. She’s loved and hated the same foods twice in a day, gone off foods and then demanded them with a face that says Come on, didn’t you get the memo???

People ask me what I feed my child all the time.

The easy answer is this: she eats what we eat. For the most part, however, when I think I’m making something she’ll love, she turns her nose up at it. On the other hand, when I doubt my eighteen-month old will be interested, she’s all about my plate! (like when she ate most of my jicama, beetroot and hijiki salad in a tangy carrot ginger dressing!)

The recipe below was no exception. I thought it looked like mac ‘n cheese and don’t all kids like that stuff? It contains some of her favourite foods: peas, pumpkin – or so I thought. Besides, everyone says kids love pasta.

Well, not this one. She left her father and I to finish it off all by our selves.

Pasta with Pumpkin Sauce and Macadamia Kream

(allergy warning: contains nuts)

As is often the case right now, dinnertime hit way too quickly. There I was, slightly panicked but determined not to succumb to the draw of easy takeaway. I think we’ve had pasta 3 or 4 times in the last 18 months. It’s not something I make often mostly because I’m not a huge fan of how I feel after eating it. But once in a while, on nights like this one, it works: unlike many of our staples, there is no pre-soaking, no pre-planning, just boiling water and a timer. And the sauce? This crazy little invention was the result of a quick scan of what we had in our cabinets and some improv. Thirty minutes later, we were sitting down to dinner -- a much less embarrassing outcome than the last time I did improv and ended up taking my bra off in front of 20 people.

Ingredients

For the Pumpkin Sauce:

5 garlic cloves, clopped finely

1 15 oz. can pumpkin (425 gr)

¼ t dried sage

pinch rosemary

pinch chipotle powder*

squeeze lemon

2 c frozen peas

1 cup water + more (depending on the size of your pan)

* we use very little to keep it child-friendly but add more at the table to suit our individual tastes

For the Macadamia Kream:

½ c macadamia nuts (preferably soaked for a few hours, but not necessary)

½ c water

¼ small onion or shallot

½ T balsamic vinegar

salt

Instructions

Chop the garlic as fine as you can or, even better, use a garlic press.

Pour about an inch of water into a pan and add the garlic. Bring to a boil and allow to simmer for a few minutes, until you can properly smell the garlic. Make sure the water doesn’t all evaporate although it’s ok for some of it to.

Then add the pumpkin as well as another cup of water, the sage and the rosemary. Allow to simmer on a low flame, stirring occasionally.

In the mean time, you can make the macadamia Kream by simply combining all the ingredients – nuts, water, onion, balsamic, salt -- in a blender and blending until smooth. (Note: I didn’t use any mustard in this version though I probably would add about ¼ t next time to give it a little extra kick)

Once the pumpkin has reduced a tad, add the frozen peas. Cook until they are ready but not mushy. Then add the chipotle and stir in a squeeze of lemon. Turn off the heat and allow the sauce to cool slightly. Then stir in the macadamia kream.

The macadamia kream shouldn’t be cooked although the pumpkin sauce, being hot, will heat it up.

Serve over (gluten free brown rice or buckwheat) pasta.

December 2nd, 2011: Magical Moments & An Easy Quinoa Recipe

Sat, 03 Dec 2011 03:56:00 GMT

The past couple of months have been a blur of boxes – packed and unpacked – shifts – mental, physical, emotional – and searching, looking, yearning for some kind of stability and, dare I say it, routine. It’s funny that two adults needed a baby in order to have, and learn to cherish, routine.

The past couple of months have also, unfortunately lacked any kind of proper time to devote to me, my work, my writing, my Picky Foodie world. Every night, when I sit at the computer it is to get things done so we don’t drown in administrative tasks. And by the time I’m done with those, every part of me is completely shattered. As a Holistic Health Consultant to myself, at that point, I recommend sleep.

Still, so many moments that would have been wonderful to share here, have gone unrecorded. However, today I knew I would be writing this down no matter how late it was or how tired I got. Full-time motherhood is the hardest, most exhausting, most time-consuming job I have ever done and probably will ever do. I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again: kids don’t come with a pause button.

But for all the challenges…

Today was a rough day. Vida Lev didn’t sleep very much or very well and kept me up most of the night with constant demands to nurse. It was also a day packed with activities, play dates and I needed to cook dinner to take over to a friend’s house. When Vida doesn’t sleep, she can get grumpy (who doesn’t?). When neither of us sleeps, well, it can get pretty trying.

I decided to take her to the park in the hopes that a little fresh air and a good run around might help. She took off after the ball but then stopped and came running back to me in tears. She demanded to be picked up but wanted to be let down again immediately. Exhaustion coupled with an inability to verbalize what’s wrong. Eesh!

Finally, she lay down on the grass and looked up at the sky. A small smile appeared on her face. She pointed at the airplanes, the birds. “Ooooo” she whispered in awe of a falling leaf or a cloud. Then she turned to look at me and patted the spot beside her.

There we lay, staring up at the blue sky, the flutter of cotton candy clouds, feeling the chilly wind on our runny noses.

“La la la,” she sang softly beside me.

“La la la,” I replied in a similar tone.

“La laaa,” she sang and waited.

It was my turn: “La laaa.”

“Laa laa.”

“la la la la.”

For a magical moment, all that existed was the blue sky, the clouds, and my daughter and I singing a song together that had no words but felt like the clearest, truest love song. Her voice went as high as it would go and then low low low. And I followed, happy. I felt her little hand grab my thumb.

La la la

Easy Easy Quinoa

These days, there is no time for fuss. There is less time for dishes or planning or complications. I thought I’d share one of our autumn favourites. (Although I’m currently no longer eating grains but that’ll be a post for another time). It’s got greens, sweet seasonal root veg, protein-rich quinoa – this is truly a perfect meal-in-a-bowl or a fantastic nutrient-dense side dish. And, it’s super versatile: make it with leftovers, change up the greens or grains you use, add different spices. Or, do the whole cook once, eat three times thing. It works, and best of all, it will keep you from missing magical moments because you were too busy in the kitchen.

1 ½ cups quinoa

1 medium squash of choice, preferably one with edible skin (I love kabocha)

1/2 T coconut oil

4 onions

1-2 bay leaves

1 T balsamic vinegar

½ t cinnamon + ¾ t cinnamon

½ t ground cumin

pinch chilli flakes or to taste

1 bunch kale

¾ c raisins

water

salt to taste

Soak the quinoa overnight or throughout a work day. Make sure you cover with enough water so it doesn’t get all soaked up.

Drain and rinse well.

Bring to a boil in 3 cups of water. Once it’s proper boiling, lower the flame and cook until the water is gone (around 45 minutes).

Pre-heat the oven to 350F/175C

Chop the squash into bite-sized pieces. Combine with the coconut oil and mix well to ensure pieces are ever so lightly coated. Sprinkle with salt, ½ t cinnamon, a sprinkle of rock salt and a pinch of chilli flakes. Roast for 45 minutes. Pull out of the over and give the pan a good shake/ stir and return to the oven for an additional 20 minutes. The squash is ready when it is easily pierced with a fork (but not mushy).

Chop the onions into thin strips, put in a pan along with the bay leaves and balsamic. Cover with water and bring to a boil. Allow to simmer, topping up the water as needed until the onions are well-cooked (around 45 minutes). There should be no water remaining in the pan.

Finely chop up the kale.

When the quinoa, squash and onions are ready, combine in a big bowl. Stir in the kale, which will be slightly “cooked” by the heat of the rest of the ingredients. Then add the additional 3/4t cinnamon, the cumin, an additional dash of chilli flakes and lastly, the raisins. Adjust the seasonings to taste.

Serve warm or at room temperature.

November 20th, 2011: A Sad Day, A Lost Friend

Tue, 22 Nov 2011 03:14:00 GMT

There are very few occasions when people from all parts of your life get together. Tonight, when I turned on my computer, I’m not sure why, but my wedding photographs popped up. Tonight, of all nights, it’s especially poignant.

A couple of days ago, a good friend of mine died. I only found out about it yesterday though. He was a very special person and although I hadn’t spoken to him in a few years, he held a special place in my heart.

He was the kind of guy who picked up and went on great adventures. He and I were supposed to drive from California to the Southern tip of Chile together. We had everything in place: I had quit my job in television production and was going to pass my learners’ permit so I’d be able to drive, he had sublet his place and had gotten his car serviced.

We hadn’t known each other for very long, but we’d become instant friends. Our mistake was that we briefly became lovers. That wasn’t our trajectory. And soon enough, somewhere between Colorado and California, we agreed that maybe we weren’t meant to be. Still, we continued, because we cared about one another – just not in that way.

I had also, by accident, met the man I would marry. By accident, because I was looking forward to my ride to Chile, when I met DW. I wasn’t in the market. On the contrary, I actively didn’t want to fall in love at first sight with a writer who lived in Los Angeles. I’d recently promised myself that 1. I would no longer date writers and 2. I wouldn't get into any long distance romances.

But then suddenly I found myself, planning the adventure of a lifetime with my friend, while, at the same time, dreaming about an almost stranger who I’d met twice in my life.

The inside of my head became one of those impossible to untangle knots that jewellery winds itself into for no reason. It can be sitting on a table one moment and then it’ll be all wound up in itself the next without having moved. Like love. Like friendship. It was complicated yet my friend made it very simple: we decided we would end our trip in Los Angeles, he dropped me off at DW’s place, gave me a warm hug, whispering “good luck” in my ear, and headed out to get on with his life.

He was a good friend and even though he and I hadn’t spoken in years, I knew the world was all the better for having him in it. He was young, a few years shy of forty. He was healthy and fit. I keep asking myself how it could happen to him. Death. Tonight I am angry at Death. Why does it seem to be everywhere right now? What in the world does it want from a great guy with a huge amount of kindness, a great attitude and a ton of ambition?

I remember his zest. I remember his intelligence. I remember when he called to tell me he had met someone special. They got married a little while ago, and tonight, I am thinking of her too though I never did get to meet her. I know I would like her, if my friend fell for her.

Apparently in the interpretation of dreams, death symbolizes change. For DW and I, it’s been tough to get our heads around all the changes we’ve been going through -- on every level, in every aspect of our lives. I can see how death and change relate to one another. But when faced with the reality of someone no longer being alive, somehow it’s different. For me, change implies that there is a way back, that you can change your mind or make another change if the one in place no longer suits. Death, however, is irreversible. I still feel that empty space in my stomach whenever I think of my grandfather. It’s the void he left, the one that will never be filled again. And that is unchangeable.

I was going to write a whole different post about being thankful and what to cook to mark your gratitude, but that one will wait. Today, I want to pay my respects to a wonderful, inspiring friend.

November 4th, 2011: A Few Of My Favourite Things

Fri, 04 Nov 2011 02:04:00 GMT

It’s been a while since I last posted. Every day, I’ve wanted to write something. And every night, bedtime rolls around without the post getting written. It reminds me a lot of my dietary tendencies from a few years back: tomorrow, I promised myself every night for a million years, would be the day I would eat better, eat less, eat healthier.

The bottom line is this: we moved continents one month ago, I was full-time Mom-ing until this week, we co-sleep so I basically go to bed when Vida Lev does. Most embarrassing though, I don’t have any new recipes to share.

We are trying to find a routine knowing that in just a few weeks we will be moving again. We search for an anchor, something familiar and feel homesick while embracing this newness with joy.

I am happy to be here, I truly am. But right now everything feels completely up in the air, like aluminium foil confetti – not that pleasant at times but quite pretty at others.

And, of course, there’s a little girl with a huge amount of emotions that she can’t quite express yet to consider and love. The other day, she went and found a picture of the lovely lady who took care of her in London, pointed at it and burst into tears. So, you know… cooking isn’t number 1 on my list these days.

Most nights, I’ll throw a bunch of something in a pot – lentils, wild rice, sprouted quinoa, roast or steam something to go with it – squash, broccoli, maybe add some kind of dressing or protein – zucchini hummus, guacamole, nutritional yeast. Nothing too exciting; but this is the grounding, simple food we are craving at the moment. (by the way, if you have yet to experience the lentil/roast squash combo, I urge you to do so on a cold wintery night. It's comfort food at it's most warming)

And, happily, I have landed in a place where I can actually buy things to eat. Not online, not a million miles away. At the grocery store, or at the place where these things are actually made. Hoorah!

American food is usually synonymous with oversized portions of fake weirdness drenched in alien sauces that could survive nuclear explosions. What is rarely mentioned is the flip side of that coin: the myriad of healthy, health-conscious companies doing their best to keep our lives easy and our energy high.

So, for the first time in years, I am no longer forced to cook every single meal. And I’m loving it! I’m loving the organic/local, green, nothing-added, fresh produce and products. And DW is loving all the fun stuff he can add to his daily bread without warranting raised eyebrows from his wife.

In light of this, I thought I’d share some of my favourite things that make my life easier without compromising my health:

* Artisana Coconut butter: if you know me, you know how much I love coconut. This is made from the flesh of the coconut and isn’t just oil. A wonderful addition to smoothies and desserts though a friend of mine spreads it straight onto her morning toast.

* Ezekiel tortillas and cereal: while I don’t personally eat these products as I can’t have gluten, I’m happy knowing that DW is treating himself well. Even Vida Lev has given them a shot – the jury’s still out on that one.

* Norwalk green juices: there’s something about how they bottle these babies that prevents oxidation. So while I’m still in flux and without my own juicer, these are a real treat – note that I say treat because they ain’t cheap. (I buy them here or here or at Whole foods)

* Faux Gras: Ella, the Queen of Brooklyn (otherwise known as The Regal Vegan), produces her wonderful product in small quantities and guarantees quality. It’s lentils, walnuts, caramelized onions and other delicious goodness.

* And so much wonderful, unpasteurized coconut water. As much as I can afford.

* Kelp noodles. I believe I’ve mentioned these once or twice... Try them. They’re awesome. Here’s the recipe I use.

* Raw breads that contain nuts, seeds and sometimes sprouted buckwheat. Vida Lev loves them too.

* And of course I have found dessert. I already had my faves: One Lucky Duck Oreo ice cream and/or cupcakes from Babycakes. But recently, desert has become a rich chocolate pie from Hail Merry or Rocking Raw’s cinnabuns. Gluten Free, Vegan, Raw. And yet absolutely delicious. Yes. Really. Ask my husband if you don’t believe me.

As we ease into life here, create our place, we will begin to cut corners, and splurges will probably involve more kitchen gear so I can make everything I need at home. But in the mean time, we’re drinking, eating and loving it up in this wonderful, crazy, disgusting, holy, miraculous, fun, dank, amazing new city we’re starting to call home.

N.B. DW reminded me that no list of products would be complete without sharing my favourite one of all: my lip balm. I remember crying at the price tag a decade ago, but have still not found anything better or cheaper.

On a final note: I was not paid by any companies, nor was I sent any samples of these products for review. However, if you’re reading this, lovely people who make these lovely things, I’ll happily accept if you feel like sending me some…

October 11th, 2011: Goodbye/Hello

Wed, 12 Oct 2011 02:24:00 GMT

This is my baby girl just a couple of weeks ago: peaceful, at home in London, oblivious to the changes about to take place. Although we made a book to explain that we were going to be moving, that we were leaving London for New York, I was well aware that it really was more for us grownups than for the sixteen-month old toddler who pointed out the big red busses and the airplanes in the photographs much in the same was she did in the street.

But the Grand Bus Rouge was replaced by the Grand Bus Jaune and I don’t know whether she expected everything to be so different. I am familiar with New York, I knew what was coming, and the changes are still intense. DW has been commenting about how different I am in the city. Calmed somehow, he says, more at ease. And bizarrely, I feel just as much at home here now, at age thirty-five, than I did the very first time I landed at JFK, over twenty years ago.

We said goodbye to London in the best way we knew how: we walked through Hampstead Heath and to the Marylebone Farmer’s market. We smelled the cheese at The Fromagerie one last time, we stopped by our favourite neighborhood café to swap general complaints. There were people to take leave of and traditions to enjoy.

But really, it’s the little things that make a place feel like home. And wandering the streets of New York City, it becomes clearer with every step that London doesn’t feel mine – never has. I loved it like a tourist on an extended stay, but I have missed the crazy fucking place that is New York.

When we were drowning in boxes, I couldn’t quite get past the questions of what we should keep, what we should sell, what should come on the plane with us, what we should leave behind. It felt like an interminable list, constantly circling around in my head, piercing my brain like ice picks in the middle of the night. What about the high chair? What about the sofa bed? What about the …?

October fourth, the day of departure, came way too quickly. In about five seconds and after a hundred years. I wasn’t ready. I had never been more ready. The taxi arrived to take us to Heathrow at 10:15 sharp. We loaded our eight bags, the stroller, the car seat, the foldable cot – travelling light wasn’t an option this time.

The moment of realization had come earlier, as DW and I walked up the street to say goodbye to our friends at The Kitchen Table, where we spent gazillions of hours over the years. On our way up the road, we had held hands, feeling each step in silence, knowing that we would not be making this silly little walk, which we had so taken for granted, again. They had greeted us as they have every day for the past four years. And we had said goodbye much in the same way we had so many times before. DW and I laughed as we crossed the street and headed back home. It all felt so… normal.

An hour later, the tears flowed.

Saying goodbye is tough. Because even if you return to the same places and see the same people, nothing will ever be the same.

Someone else will be living in our house. Another family will inhabit the walls where my baby girl came into the world. They will cook on the incredible range, and take that same wander up the block to order sandwiches and fantastic coffee at The Kitchen Table. They will live fifteen minutes from Hampstead Heath while we …

We are heading into this new chapter in our lives. One in which nothing is clear or determined yet. In the past few weeks, we have been in turn excited and terrified, elated and suspicious, relieved and regretful, sad and joyful and everything in between.

As the taxi pulled out, a weight lifted off my shoulders. I could do nothing more, even if I had wanted to. What was packed would be packed, what was being shipped we would see again in a few weeks, what would be would be. And if I wanted to avoid motion sickness, I needed to keep looking forward.

I don’t know if I actually laughed out loud, but I felt like doing so. To go from being worried about what box contained my fermentation pot to not caring in the space of half a millisecond knocked me off balance enough that I was grateful to be sitting down. The only thing that mattered wasn’t whether we should or shouldn’t take the furniture, or how many tea bags I should take on the flight – it was the two people sitting on either side of me, my husband and my daughter.

And then, just like that, we find ourselves wandering the streets of New York slightly in awe, but also bizarrely at home already -- we know where we like to eat, where we like to shop for groceries, who we need to call, what we need to see, do, explore, experience. Only unlike in the past, there's a little person involved and at the same time everything is new.

Vida Lev is now toddling along, which means she has little time to be in her carrier or her stroller. So we let her wander the streets of Manhattan and Brooklyn to her heart’s desire. She waddles, holding her arms up on each side of her to keep her balance. And then every so often, she squats down in a kind of downward dog to recalibrate before taking off again. This child fits right in here: already she is in a hurry. People wave, people smile, people ask whether her boots come in adult sizes. If you think New Yorkers are rude or unfriendly, you should set a beaming toddler loose in the streets: never have I seen such love, enjoyment and pleasure in people’s faces as in the past few days with my little girl.

On a final note, I will say this: we have gone from a four-bedroom house in London to who knows what in New York (though I know for a fact that whatever we find will be smaller than what we were in). The stress, which was can I keep this?, has now become why in the world did I hold on to that?

Life. The jokes never stop coming.

Recipe: Breakfast for Globetrotting Parents

When you're moving continents and running after a very energetic little girl, breakfast needs to power you through until God knows when. This one might seem complicated and filled with scary, unknown ingredients, but people often ask me what I eat so I decided to share this latest favourite which has kept me sated, grounded and happy for many a challenging morning recently. I won't lie, this is one greeeeen smoothie but it's choc-full of good fats, minerals, protein and awesome quality slow-burning fuel. Plus, in my opinion, it's delicious though I am aware that my palate is greeeeener than most people's so consider yourself warned. The great news is that all you have to do is blend so it's super simple to make. And if you let the mixture sit for a few minutes, it will thicken up into a pudding. I like to top mine with juicy berries and crunchy cacao nibs for something to chew on, and eat it with a big old spoon.

Ingredients:

1 T coconut butter

1 T hemp seeds

2 T chia seeds

1 t spirulina

1 t chlorella

1/8 t kelp powder

1 t cinnamon

1 t vanilla powder

1 dropper Oceans Alive

1 banana

3/4 c raspberries

1 dried fig

4-5 kale leaves, stalks removed

1 cup water

For the topping (optional):

small handful fresh blueberries

a sprinkle of cacao nibs

Instructions:

Combine all the ingredients in the blender.

Blend well -- you might need to add a little more water, depending on the strength of your machine.

Allow to thicken for a few minutes.

Top with blueberries and cacao nibs (optional).

P.S. Happy Birthday to ME!

September 27th, 2011: A Pop-Up Restaurant that is Picky Foodie friendly (and friendly in general)

Tue, 27 Sep 2011 21:33:00 GMT

For the past while, I’ve been reading (and drooling) about pop-up restaurants without being able to partake in this latest foodie fashion. I cannot think of a less pleasant phone call to make than ringing a four-day passion project to ask whether they can do me a gluten-, dairy-, bla bla bla, everything-free version of whatever it is they have spent months agonizing over. Not really my idea of a good time – not for them, not for me.

Until this week. Thanks to the lovely Molly from The Particular Kitchen – my twitter friend who magically transformed into real-life bud – I found out about this place: Tolerance Restaurant

Vegan and gluten-free – in London (England) -- huh? Huh? WHAAAAAT?

The last time I got this excited about food in London, it was served on a bus and the view was of hookers. (long story)

DW and I had a date-night planned for Friday, and seeing as cinema times are not really geared towards co-sleeping attachment-parenting Ima and Pappa of a toddler, we decided to check the place out.

Let me start with a warning: there are no pictures of the food. I wanted to enjoy, relax and eat without stressing out about whether I had a good enough shot.

We called to ensure that I could, in fact, eat their food and got a resounding yes. Even when I called again, early Friday morning – the day of said dinner – to make sure there was no dreaded agave, the friendly Natalie who was to be our waitress, patiently and kindly liased with the chef to assure me. Raw avocado chocolate mousse it was then!

DW and I sauntered through the streets of North London, holding hands, feeling strangely free and yet as if we’d – as DW said – “left a part of our hearts back home.” It’s difficult to leave Vida Lev. And wonderful to be alone with my husband.

Like good parents on a ticking clock, we arrived early and chatted to the two women in charge – one of whom was the lovely Natalie from earlier. The other was her equally gorgeous sister. They made us feel welcome and comfortable, a detail that always has huge ramifications on my dinner – the attitude of restaurant staff is more often than not, reflected in the food, don’t you think? Their charm lasted throughout the meal. Really, truly, I could have sat there for hours. I loved the décor, the lighting, the whole ambiance was wonderful.

And now to the food. This is trickier. Let me start by saying that I did very much enjoy it. The ingredients were fresh, and clearly a lot of love and thought had gone into each dish.

Simply put, I’d give the Chef a 10 for effort. I could tell he worked his ass off to provide a range of options showcasing his different talents as well as catering to us “healthy” “vegan” types. Each course offered both raw and cooked options -- earthy roots, refreshing salads, great grains and healthy fats.

For all three – the starters, mains and desserts -- DW and I shared a cooked dish and a raw one. The cooked dishes were without a doubt superior to the raw though I feel a little guilty saying this as I’m so grateful that there was raw food to begin with!

Our starters were a salad with mandolin-thin sliced sweet potato and olive and tomato tapenade – richly flavoured, a great combo of sweet and savoury. I happen to be very partial to mixing things like olives with sweet roots and was very happy with the results in this particular salad. It was satisfying without being heavy. The raw nori rolls, on the other hand, were surprisingly unconvincing. They tasted like many a raw mock tuna salad I have had in the past – something I’m not all that keen on anyway. But based on the description on the menu, I had expected a lovely, mellow vegetable roll, not the intense taste I was confronted with. It didn’t feel as well thought out, as nuanced as the cooked salad (which did contain raw spinach leaves).

For mains, we had the quinoa cakes and the raw stir-fry (which obviously wasn’t fried) with pine nut “rice.”

I’m going to interrupt myself here to mention a pet peeve that extends to most of these places: please don’t call something by a more widely known name if what you’re delivering is completely different. Don’t say “pizza” when it has nothing to do with the famous dish, or “meatballs” when there isn’t any meat for miles, or “stir-fry” when it isn’t fried. OK, I feel better now. Thank you.

When DW had his first bite of the quinoa cake with cabbage sauce, he pronounced it “bland.” But lo and behold, by the second, third, fourth, twentieth bite, we were both wanting more. I want it for my vegan Thanksgiving; or for Sunday roast. Every week. It was a warming, comfort-food type dish – not immediately impressive -- but it crept up and discretely turned wonderful. In fact, we requested a takeaway sample for Vida Lev, which the chef kindly sent us up on the house. How sweet is that?

Unfortunately, however, though the raw “stir fry” and “rice” wasn’t bad, it also wasn’t fantastic. Here’s the thing about raw food: getting gourmet raw food right is harder than it seems. Almost anyone can make a decent salad, but what separates a bunch of lettuce leaves from actual uncooked greatness is the same thing that separates a chef from a passionate cook. Once again, however, I would have to give Chef Cooper a 10 for effort.

For dessert, DW had the chocolate hazelnut cake, which I tried a tiny bit of (it contained soy so I stayed away for the most part). I found it slightly dry – personally, I’m big on icing – but DW would happily have enjoyed a second piece had his stomach, budget and ego allowed him to. My raw chocolate mousse was good. The chef made me a special agave-free version for which I was grateful.

What a treat to be able to spoon food off DW’s plate, to allow him to taste mine without having to request additional cutlery -- to eat and enjoy without worrying and wondering.

I know this guy is going to make waves in London. At least I hope he will. Because I could taste his passion in every bite. He still has a ways to go, but I applaud him. Bring on the healthy, gluten-free, vegan pop-ups!

We enjoyed our experience at Tolerance so much that DW and I decided to stop by Oliver’s Café, where the pop-up took place to check out their regular service. Again, lovely people, lovely ambiance.

“Where has this place been all my [London] life?” I wondered out loud.

We had to laugh – ain’t it always the way? Like when you’re about to go to the hairdresser and your hair looks perfect for the first time in forever. But hey ho, we leave for New York in a week!

That being said, I was chatting to the owner and the guy behind the bar about vegan food and raw food and how different people react to it. I’m of the opinion that anyone who cooks special diet meals should be focusing on making their food exciting and delicious for everyone, not just people who choose to or are forced to eat a specific way. Whether it’s gluten-free, vegan, raw, or all of the above, it needs to knock your socks off, even if you eat ham and cheese baguette every other meal of your life.

For example, some of the diners at Tolerance were turned off by the fact that the chocolate mousse was made with avocado. My theory is that had they not known the strange and unexpected ingredient to begin with, they probably would have enjoyed it more. Case-in-point: my raw chocolate banana torte. The name doesn’t give anything away, nor do I tell people about the tahini or the avocado (unless, of course, there’s an allergy or intolerance issue) until they’re licking their fingers and plates clean – and, believe me, they usually do. This recipe appeared in the second Leon cookbook, Naturally Fast Food.

Raw Chocolate Banana Torte

A great one to make a day or two in advance as the extra time lets the flavours meld together. Trust me, if you can get past the idea of avocado in dessert, you’ll love it.

For the Base layer

¾ cups almonds

6 dates, pitted

¼ cup melted coconut oil

1/3 cup sunflower seeds

pinch salt

For the chocolate layer

2 avocados

2 T tahini

6 T cacao

½ t vanilla powder

2 t honey

4 T water

For the banana layers

4 ripe bananas

It is important to start by making the base layer so that it has time to set in the freezer:

For the base layer:

Combine the almonds, dates, sunflower seeds and salt in the food processor. Melt the coconut oil in a Bain de Marie to avoid overheating. Once the coconut oil has liquified, pour into the food processor while it’s working. The mixture should end up as more or less one uniform ball.

Divide into two parts, one larger (about 3/4), one smaller (about ¼) and put the smaller one aside. Press the larger part into an 8 inch round cake pan with the base of your palm until it is about half a centimetre thick. Put in the freezer to set while you prepare the other layers.

For the first banana layer:

Mash up two bananas.

For the second banana layer:

Chop the remaining two bananas into even slices.

For the chocolate layer:

(This can be done by hand or in the food processor – the key here is to make sure that it is extremely well-mixed: you don’t want little chunks of avocado ruining the party.)

Mash the avocado. Mix the tahini in very well. Add the cacao and vanilla powder followed by the honey and make sure everything is well blended – it should look like and have the consistency of chocolate pudding. At the very end, dilute ever so slightly with water.

To create the torte:

Pull the bottom layer out of the freezer.

Cover with the mashed bananas.

At this point, roll out the second, smaller chunk of base layer dough until it is about as thick as a pancake or a tortilla and gently place on top of the mashed bananas

Gently arrange the chopped bananas over the entire surface

Cover with the chocolate layer.

Keep Refrigerated until serving.

September 15th, 2011: Bread

Thu, 15 Sep 2011 10:23:00 GMT

“It’s so nice to see you enjoy.” Dw’s words were painful to hear.

Have I really been taking such little pleasure in my food lately?

The answer is yes. Honestly, truly. I wish it was different, but the reality is such that recently I have been cooking because my child needs to be fed, or as a way of procrastinating the mountains of packing that await me in every room. Food has, in the past few months, become a chore.

Over the years, I have removed and reinstated countless ingredients: tomatoes, oats, tamari, potatoes (sweet and regular), aubergines (eggplants to the Yanks), to name a few. Some have remained, some have been jettisoned again, while others come and go depending on how I’m feeling.

Last March, I found myself depleted of energy, drained at all times, my thyroid was acting up, and I hadn’t been able to lose even a gram of the weight I had put on during my pregnancy. The very talented Naturopath I saw recommended I remove all nuts (except coconut and some cashews and macadamias if necessary), seeds, pulses and grains. We compromised on oats, which I happily ate for breakfast every morning and stuffed in every dessert imaginable (something had to replace all those nut-filled recipes!). She also requested that I eat more meat – something I have been trying to remove altogether (since becoming a mother, I have found it much more difficult to stomach).

I agreed to try and within a few weeks, I was feeling a hundred times better. My weight started to normalize, my skin, which had been red and blotchy for a while, cleared up, my mood lightened. All was well.

Until it wasn’t.

For me, food should be about enjoyment. I love textures, colours, flavours. I mix, I match, I test, I taste. Since Vida Lev was born cooking has become even more important to me as often it is my only creative outlet.

My list was pretty stark:

Dos: greens, potatoes (which I can’t stand unless they are French Fries drowned in mayonnaise – yes, really), sweet potatoes, mushrooms, fruit, coconut, all meat, especially wild caught (ugh, yuck – sooo not into it right now), chocolate (ok, so I didn’t ask about this one. Technically, cacao is a seed, but I played shtum and decreed it was “different” i.e. the only way to get through this)

Don’ts: gluten, dairy, soy, sugar (refined), flour, beans, nuts, seeds, aubergines. Peppers, grains and other nightshades (unless well cooked).

Green, yes. But dull. Dull. Dull.

At first, I was so happy to be feeling great -- I started working out again and revelled in my newfound vigour. It was a hot summer and we spent three weeks in the Middle East where it was easy to stick to salads and fruit.

Upon our return, however, things started to change.

I got bored. Then I got angry. Then the cravings started.

Some people stop eating when they’re emotional. Not me. And sugar is my port of call. I kept telling myself that it could be worse, that I could be eating a pint of actual ice cream instead of Choosing Raw's soft serve made out of only bananas (seriously, it's amazing all on its own but if you want to be truly decadent, try it on top of my Unreasonable Brownies -- just be sure to omit the cayenne). But the body doesn’t care if you’re overeating on Carvel or Chiquita.

So what if I was eating too much healthy food – it was still too much and I wasn’t feeling good. Again.

This week, I decided to start incorporating things back into my diet. I wanted to rediscover joy in my meals.

This journey is exactly that, a journey. And when I find myself getting too preachy either when I speak to people or when I’m writing this blog, my body finds a way to remind me that I too struggle on a daily basis with what is right for me, what is healthy in my life, what I need in order to feel my best.

By now, my palate has changed. For example, I have no desire for, almonds, that powerhouse of plant-based protein I didn’t think I could live without. On the other hand I find myself craving, chia and hemp seeds, which I didn’t care for in the past.

But really, what I’ve been missing most is bread. It’s a texture thing: is there a more satisfying experience than biting into a good piece of bread? Bread is such a basic part of my food memory, a constant in an ever-changing childhood. I know I’m not the first to say this, but when I first went gluten free, the thought of living without bread was terrifying. Thankfully, and again, I know I’m not the first to have this experience, we do have a myriad of wonderful options available to us these days.

In order to celebrate my return to joyful eating, I started back at square one, a return to basics if you will: I baked bread. I made not one but two different kinds of bread – one raw and one more mainstream. Usually, I reserve these posts for recipes of my own creation. But I cannot claim ownership of either of these. It’s been a while, and it was nice to be able to find inspiration out there in other people’s adventures. Both breads came out wonderfully and there are no words to describe the pleasure I’ve been taking in every single bite.

Two Bread Recipes

Raw Butternut Squash Flatbread (raw/vegan)

A friend of mine uses her oven pilot light instead of a dyhydrator. I cranked up the dehydrator one last time before our big move. Note: when eating dehydrated foods - whether your own or store bought -- don’t forget to up your liquid intake.

(Adapted from Shazzie’s book, “Evie’s Kitchen, Raising an ecstatic Child.”)

Ingredients:

- 1 butternut squash, peeled, deseeded, roughly chopped

- 10 cherry tomatoes – I used a mixture of yellow and red. They’re so sweet right now

- ½ cup fresh parsley, roughly

- 1 t coconut aminos (or soy sauce)

- 3 T ground flax seeds

- pinch of sea salt (optional, to taste)

- ¼ t sweet paprika

- ¼ cup water

Directions:

Start by processing the butternut squash and tomatoes well. Then add the water, parsley, flax, coconut aminos , paprika and salt and process again until a paste forms. This could take a few minutes and you might need to add more water, depending on the veggies.

Then spread on teflex sheets and dehydrate at 105 Fahrenheit (40 Centigrade) for 5 hours. Flip over and remove the teflex sheets and dehydrate for an additional 8 hours until they are hard but still flexible.

Enjoy with avocado and sprouts or according to your personal preferences.

Pecan, Almond and Buckwheat Bread

They say when you’re adapting a recipe, the first thing to do is make it exactly as the original instructs. Then you can play and change things from a clear starting point. Until I baked this bread, I didn’t think I was physically capable of following a recipe. Usually, I start to pour and mix and suddenly I’ll feel an overwhelming urge to change things, add an ingredient that I know will improve whatever it is I’m working on. But this bread was so easy and simple that I just followed it without even thinking about it. The only difference was that I used a rectangular baking tin because that is what I have.

I will, however, be working on an egg-free/vegan version.

The original post is so beautiful and evocative (much like the rest of her site – definitely worth losing yourself in for as long as you can spare) that I’d rather you check it out
on La Tartine Gourmande's blog rather than copying and pasting it here. This bread blew my socks off. It's hearty and rich without being heavy. Though I didn't know whether this strange new taste would stand the baby-palate test, Vida Lev gobbled up a couple of pieces with relish.

September 9th, 2011: Being Unreasonable

Fri, 09 Sep 2011 09:48:00 GMT

The other day someone said it to me. The subject was my daughter.

My answer?

Unreasonable? Moi? You bet!

Though it wasn’t meant as a compliment, I have come to the conclusion that being unreasonable is not a bad thing. It’s simply a lack of reason. And reason can be more of a hindrance than a help when it comes to matters of the heart – family, love.

The brain’s job is to solve problems, discover patterns, make rules. Emotions and feelings exist in a completely separate realm where one plus one might equal a hula hoop instead of the famous t-w-o.

The thing about using words like “unreasonable” isn’t just that it’s judgmental and condescending. In my experience, people who talk about being reasonable are usually the same people who view emotions as a four-letter-word. Eek, gloopy, uncontrollable, messy, unrestrained emotions – call the police! Or the brain.

Ever heard (or used) the expression “keeping busy”? People constantly need to keep busy. It’s a way of making sure our brains don’t nitpick our lives to death. Because the problem with having to solve problems is that when there is a dearth of trouble, you bet the brain will do its utmost to create some.

“Unreasonable” used to feel like an insult to me and yet somehow when I heard it the other day, I almost laughed. For the first time, I owned up to the fact that I am, at times, very unreasonable. And that’s just fine with me.

Six and three quarter ways to make sure you’re being unreasonable:

1. Go for a walk in the rain. When the skies open up and it’s pouring, head out. Wander around those familiar streets and take a good look at a totally new part of the world without leaving your neighbourhood.

2. Use Raspberries As Finger Hats. They’re so much more delicious that way. Or better yet, use them as hats on the fingers of your beloved.

3. Do what you love. This is a new one for me. I did the whole “choose a reasonable career that will pay the bills” thing. It left me sick and depressed. Then I procrastinated because I feared and I reasoned. Now I’m ready.

4. Have Dessert For Breakfast. Raw chocolate smoothies have successfully converted many a night owl into morning people. (tweet twoo)

5. Love The One You’re With. Be it a friend, a partner, a pet, or your own wonderful company.

6. Find Inspiration. I love Julia Cameron’s concept of the Artist Date. It’s awesome. Best done during the day when you “should” be doing something else.

And the three quarters? Read Between the Lines.

Unreasonable Drenched Brownies in Melted Icing

(Adapted from Meghan Telpner’s hot hot hot and spicy brownies)

Sweet potato, cayenne and apple sauce in brownies? Sounds pretty unreasonable, doesn’t it? Need more convincing about how wonderfully delectably delicious unreasonable can be? Give these babies a try.

Ingredients

For the brownies:

- 100 gr. 100% cacao chocolate bar

- 1 T coconut oil

- ½ cup sweet potato puree (steamed and then mashed/pureed)

- 1/8 cup honey

- ½ cup coconut sugar

- ½ cup Valrhona cacao powder

- 2 t vanilla extract (gluten free)

- ¾ cup apple sauce

- ½ cup coconut flour

- ½ t baking powder

- sprinkle salt

- ½ T cinnamon

- ¼ t cayenne

- 1/16 t green stevia powder

- 1 banana, mashed

- ¼ c cashew milk (blend 1/8 c cashews and 1 cup water – use the rest for the melted icing)

- ¼ cup water (or more)

For the Melted Icing:

- 1 cup cashew milk

- 1 T coconut oil

- 1 T coconut butter

- 1/8 cup Valrhona cacao powder

- 1 T honey

Directions:

For the Brownies:

Preheat the oven to 350 Fahrenheit (176 Centigrade)

Melt the chocolate and coconut oil in a double boiler / bain de Marie.

In the mean time, combine the wet ingredients and process with the S blade in the food processor. Transfer to a large bowl and fold in the melted chocolate and coconut oil.

Pour into oiled baking pan and bake for 60 minutes (check after 30 and then every 10 minutes with a toothpick)

Allow to cool fully before attempting anything.

For the Melted Icing:

Blend 1 cup or the leftover cashew milk with the coconut oil (can be room temperature, shouldn’t be too firm), coconut butter, cacao powder and honey. Should be like pancake batter – not too creamy, this is unreasonable icing after all! Store in the refrigerator until the brownies are fully cooled.

Then drench and allow to set in the fridge for at least five hours.

Note: coconut flour does not a crumbly brownie make. These are too gooey to be cake, and too cakey to be mousse. But if you allow them to set (see below*), they’ll reward you with fudge.

September 2nd, 2011: No Regrets

Fri, 02 Sep 2011 10:08:00 GMT

I couldn’t sleep last night and now it’s 6 in the morning and I’ve been awake for half an hour. Lying in bed, watching my loved ones, I am content. Vida Lev is nestled in her father’s chest, happy and secure.

Growing up, I hated this time of day. Being an early riser, mornings were when I felt the differences with my peers most acutely. My friends forbade me from calling before noon so I would sit counting the hours until someone was awake. At 12:01, I would pick up the phone. Not yet fully conscious, the person on the other line would sigh and remind me that days were for sleeping so they could be compos mentis at night.

As an adult, early mornings became mine to write and read and generally focus on me – before the To Do list sucked me back into the day-to-day shoulds.

Now that I’m a mother, my nights as well as my days belong to a little person with a big personality and, at the moment, quite a cough.

Just before the sun comes up, when the rest of the world is still asleep, I feel quieter, less obliged to others. My head is clear even when I only get six hours of broken, interrupted sleep.

For seven weeks this summer, I was a full-time mother. It was me and Vida Lev and her Pappa, when he could. My hat goes off to people who do it alone and full-time. I love my child more than anything but it was hard. Every second of every day, there was someone attached to me, a person with strong needs and no options for compromise. For this former commitment-phobe, it was quite something.

Then, last week, the lovely lady who takes care of our daughter three mornings a week finally returned from her holidays. After briefly asking how her time away was, I handed Vida Lev over and fled. My office had that abandoned look to it, papers were strewn haphazardly and I thought I could hear a soft breeze blowing with a melancholy whisper.

This week, for the first time in almost sixteen months, DW and I got two nights to ourselves.

Do you know what? I missed my little girl so much that I had to cut our date short. After an hour and a half, my ache and longing were overwhelming. The thought of not putting her to bed was impossible.

The second night was a little easier, but when the movie we wanted to see was sold out, we immediately headed home – no need to stay out for the sake of it. Again we didn’t make it past seven-thirty.

When our roles change in life – when we become partners or wives or mothers (or, I’m guessing, grandmothers) – we are forced to redefine who we are. Suddenly “normal” means something completely different. For example, those same mornings that were once my sacred time are now about feeding, bathing, dressing Vida Lev. Even sitting down to write these words, I feel how much my normal has changed. The silence is strange, and I am only half here – the rest of me is listening out for her, not wanting to miss those first stirrings and the magic of my little girl waking.

I have been trying to figure out why this former independence-loving girl has turned into such an attached Mamma. Is it a need for control? Is it insecurity? Is it fear? The word that keeps coming to mind is regret.

Regrets keep us trapped. We can’t go back and change situations in the past although regrets keep us wishing we could. We become unable to move forward and unwilling to let go of what didn’t happen or what could have been. Regrets transform little things into big ones, and us into sad people. They are dark, sharp, like a rusty nail catching the fabric of a favourite sweater. And we can choose how we go about getting unstuck: do we freeze and do nothing; do we pull hard and aggravate the situation; or do we stop, examine and untangle ourselves as gently as we know how?

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about regrets. It’s made me do things a little differently.

We’re moving in about a month and the time, which used to crawl by, is now taking steps two by two. Every day might possibly be the last time I do something in London.

Like walking over the Beatles’ famous crosswalk on Abbey Road, which is on route into the city centre. Or eating at our favourite restaurant in London, The Providores, where we planned our wedding over many ~~glasses~~ bottles of wine.

One thing I never want to think of doing for the last time is rocking my baby girl to sleep, or watching her little smile as she drifts off. Regrets are personal, they're not about anyone else. And so when I rushed home to tuck my baby girl in, it wasn't because I was being overprotective or controlling - I knew Vida Lev was absolutely fine - but rather because missing even one bed time at this point would be something I would regret.

They say time goes by quicker as you get older. Is it age or does parenting make you want to hold on to every minute that much tighter?

...

I have no recipe for you this week as I can’t decide which one to post – so I’m asking the readers of this blog to choose one. Here are your options:
- Slow-cooked lamb shank
- Broccoli soup
- White bean spread
- Sun-dried tomato “ketchup”
- Peach crumble OR Apple and cherry crumble

(all recipes are vegan except for the lamb shank. The peach crumble is raw)

Let me know on email or twitter or by submitting a comment at the bottom of this post.

The winner will be up next week.

P.S. there’s still time to send me your version of the Picky Foodie’s Everyday Cookie Recipe. I’ve gotten some fun ones so far and am very much looking forward to the next batch!

August 26th, 2011: Show Me Your Cookie, I'll Show You Mine

Fri, 26 Aug 2011 21:30:00 GMT

Give 10 people the same recipe and you'll get 10 results. It's part of what I love about cooking. And in the hours I spend perusing food blogs, I am consistently struck by two paradoxical thoughts: how similar we all are and at the same time, I see and experience our differences. What an amazing time we live in that I can visit kitchens in Toronto, Hong Kong, NYC, Vancouver, Los Angeles and Buenos Aires in the space of a few minutes.

The only things missing are the smells – although those are easily imagined with the help of some great writing -- and the tastes, which can be recreated in my own kitchen in my own way.

If you read this blog, or are a part of the extended food-blogging community, you probably know about Jennifer Perillo who recently lost her husband. Watching people from all walks of life and stretching the globe band together to help this woman and her little girls has been incredibly touching. It has also gotten me thinking about that same paradox of cooking: how many of us felt touched by her story because we feel a similarity, and yet how different most of our lives are from hers.

When you think about it, however, no matter where we live, who we are or what we do; no matter what our circumstances, after our basic needs are met, we all want the same thing: to be happy. But it is exactly where our desires concur that we differ – as the meaning of happiness is so personal.

So I have these cookies, right? My Everyday Cookies that I blogged about a few weeks back. As I said then, cooking is what I do when life gets complicated. It's what I do when life is great, when it's hard, when I'm scared, when I'm happy. These days, cooking is oftentimes my main creative outlet.

Originally these cookies were created as something that Vida Lev could enjoy on the go. They weren't meant to do anything beyond that. I needed something simple, quick, and, of course, healthy and delicious.

One night, on a whim, I made them. And my little girl loved them as did her Dad. Then the neighbour enjoyed a few, and my mother and grandmother. My brother took a box, my niece gobbled some. These silly little cookies were a Picky Foodie hit.

Whenever someone confided that they were worried about giving their children processed food, or that they didn’t have much time (or desire) to cook, I would point them to my Everyday Cookies.

The responses have been wonderful.

“These are going to be a problem!” one friend emailed forty-five minutes after I’d sent her the recipe.

“Fantastic!” came another friend’s message, “we can’t stop eating them” (we meaning herself, her husband and her little one – you see, these cookies are inter-generational).

I actually make two batches at a time now – one for DW and one for Vida Lev. The best part of these cookies is that the basic recipe remains the same:

1 ½ - 2 cups ground almonds
¼ cup melted coconut oil
¼ cup maple syrup
½ cup raisins
1 egg (optional and very much according to personal taste – including it will create a softer cookie. For the record: Vida Lev likes the egg while DW prefers without.)

Preheat the oven to 175 Centigrade (347 Fahrenheit)

Using an ice cream scoop, drop the cookie batter on a non-stick baking sheet in even mounds. Flatten lightly with a wet fork (optional).

Bake for 9-11 minutes, depending on your oven. The cookies should come out of the oven slightly browned around the edges but still soft. Allow to cool completely before serving.

And when I run out of one ingredient, I substitute another without fuss: so far, we’ve done the plain version, a batch with honey, some with and some without vanilla, and one with banana and rosemary. Sometimes I’ve blended the ingredients together, other times I’ve left the raisins intact. These are low-maintenance cookies for sure.

They’re so insanely easy. It makes me wonder why I bother with the more complicated stuff.

But another, unexpected development has emerged: using the basic recipe as a template, the inhabitants of my virtual as well as my in-person world have started making these cookies and in doing so they have adapted this recipe in a myriad of ways. People have been making it their own, changing things around to suit their unique palate and best of all, they’ve let me know about it. It’s been wonderful to read about in emails and see the results in pictures.

So much so that I’ve been inspired to reach out to the larger community.

Here’s the idea: if you have or are interested in making your own version of my Everyday Cookies, I’d love to hear about it. Please send me your additions, subtractions, changes and adaptations as well as any information you’d like me to include about you. Photographs are welcome too.

Please email your entry no later than October 12th, 2011 to: Gabriela at thepickyfoodie.com

In order to show my appreciation for our similarities and our diversity, participants will receive an e-copy of the collected recipes.

N.B. On a side-note, Jennifer Perillo needs our help. Bloggers Without Borders have created #afundforjennie to help her and her children in this difficult time. Please check out their site and bid or donate what you can.

August 19th, 2011: Another Draft

Thu, 18 Aug 2011 21:37:00 GMT

Somewhere along the way, I lost my sense of direction. The map I had drawn got washed along with my favourite flea market jeans. I was sixteen and couldn’t remember where I was supposed to turn to get where I wanted to go.

The first time I revealed to someone I loved and trusted that I wanted to be a writer, I took what was, for me, a huge leap of faith. It was a deep and scary revelation that took all of my courage. Their response broke my heart:

“Why would you want to do that?” they said with a chuckle that felt like a smack across my cheek, “you can’t make a living at it, and besides, who would be interested in anything YOU have to say?”

Though I am no longer in contact with this person, their words shut me down for years. Unable to get past the question about who my audience would be, I froze – I didn’t have the answer and couldn’t muster the guts to find out. Because what if they were right and nobody read my words? I couldn’t bear the thought of pouring my soul onto the page and having it be rejected.

Though I was able to get that person out of my life, their words continued to haunt me. To this day, when I’m struggling with my writing, I can hear that familiar voice telling me I’m not good enough. With time, I have learned to recognize it for what it is. And now, after years of hiding and procrastinating, I have finally decided to take that leap once more.

The kitchen is my sanctuary. It’s where I go when I’m sad or angry or frustrated. It’s my safe place. Somehow, I seem to have more courage in the kitchen. Because here’s the thing: I am a terrible baker. My cakes, gluten-free and vegan, come out crumbly or hard, too gummy or not sweet enough. Sometimes – believe it or not – my cakes come out all of the above, and it takes a certain talent to make a cake that is both crumbly and gummy!

I guess with cake as with fiction, it’s about accepting that your first draft will probably be terrible. In fact, it’s supposed to be terrible. Not that that’s easy to admit to yourself or pleasant to hear or acknowledge. But only by doing something over and over, by ripping it to shreds and really analysing what needs to be improved can you get good. Like writing. Or baking.

Recently I have been spending a lot of time on Jennifer Perillo’s blog. When I saw this cake, although, as I say, my baking leaves a lot to be desired, I decided I had to attempt it -- Picky Foodie style of course.

The result?

I’m pretty sure I will bake better cakes in the future. But I’ve definitely done worse. It wasn’t too gummy or too crumbly and it wasn’t too hard. Amazingly, it stayed together quite well in that you can pick up a piece and comfortably take a bite without losing half of it along the way. It could possibly have been a little sweeter -- the kind of cake you could have for breakfast or for dessert -- and I suspect it will complement DW’s afternoon tea really well.

Best of all? I love the feeling of having another draft under my belt and my baking seems to have really improved in that my raspberry cake was at least edible. I’m going to make this one again, try for better, keep working towards that elusive perfect Picky Foodie cake.

Calorie-wise, at least, I think writing will be easier than baking. So there’s another reason to give this fiction thing another shot. In the mean time, however, I think I’ll go brew some rosehip and hibiscus tea and cut myself another little piece.

Raspberry Cake
(adapted from Jennifer Perillo’s Raspberry Olive Oil Cake)

Makes one 10-inch cake

2 cups Bob’s Red Mill gluten free All Purpose flour
¼ cup coconut sugar
1 T maple syrup
2 t baking powder
¼ t coarse salt
2 T ground flax seeds briefly soaked in 2 T water
1 T melted coconut oil (and a little more to grease the pan)
2 t vanilla extract
½ cup coconut milk
2 c frozen raspberries
1 mashed banana

Preheat the oven to 350 Fahrenheit / 175 Centigrade

Sift together the dry ingredients.

Whisk together the wet ingredients, leaving out the raspberries.

Combine the two and then fold in the raspberries.

Grease a 10 inch round cake pan with a little coconut oil and then pour in the batter. Bake for 45 minutes. Allow to cool slightly and then remove the cake from within the cake pan but keep the bottom.

Once the cake has cooled down completely, indulge in a piece and wait for the muse to find you.

August 12th, 2011: Commitment

Fri, 12 Aug 2011 22:26:00 GMT

Mikey Perillo died this week. I didn’t know him, nor did hundreds of others taking part in honouring him in the way his wife, Jennie, requested on her blog. Tonight, the Internet is filled with pictures of peanut butter cream pie accompanied by personal stories of lives celebrated and loves lost, of marriages and dates with loved ones. A young couple from Brooklyn managed to touch so many, and it’s been incredible to see the outpouring of love and support for these people. The Internet, often accused of bringing isolation and loneliness has, in this instance at least, done the opposite (if you're interested, check out #apieformikey on twitter)

As a result of Jennifer and Mikey Perillo’s story I did two things:
The first is that I made a Picky Foodie version of Peanut Butter Pie (non-bake, vegan, gluten-free with homemade raw chocolate and jungle peanuts), which DW and I ate together sitting in the garden, having taken a rare moment to be just the two of us.
The second is that it gave me the courage to make a decision I have been afraid of for a very long time. It’s kind of a long story, so bear with me.

This post has been building up for a while. I have flirted with it all summer but haven’t been ready or willing to commit. Commitment is a big deal to me. It requires allowing myself to be vulnerable, opening up, letting go of fears or at least admitting that I’m scared.

Commitment takes guts. Even now, writing these words, suddenly the kitchen beckons – the raw chocolate cups I made are calling, I suddenly feel I should be making Vida Lev’s dinner for tonight – I need to check my email and respond, or what about that phone call I should really return… Anything to avoid even thinking of what I’m in the process of typing.

(yup, checked my email. Nothing new.)

Commitment scares me. So much so that I fled to Thailand when DW and I got engaged, and then to Brooklyn after we got married. Commitment means giving your all, jumping in head first or simply showing up.

This morning, I kept upping the speed on the treadmill until I could barely breathe. Part of me thought I would end up getting thrown at the wall. Part of me was hoping for it. I ran like a maniac, my arms tightly in place, my knees jolting, my feet pounding until I was sweating, breathing loudly and still unwilling to stop. Running is where I feel comfortable, what I know; it’s what I do best, what I’ve done for most of my adult life.

At some point, however, you need to catch your breath. Luckily for me, every time I’ve fled from him, DW has waited patiently until I stopped, at which point he has enveloped me in his arms and let me cry or laugh or make him dinner. Slowly, through the years, as our lives have been through ups and downs and he has shown me that I can trust him, I have learned to commit to my husband in a way that not even the rings we exchanged made me feel comfortable enough to do.

I realize now that it’s relatively easy to commit to someone else. I can always find something else that our life together demands of me, something that needs to get done or alternatively, I can find something wrong with it, something to correct or improve.

Ironically, the one it’s hardest to take that plunge with is myself and although my to-do list is constantly growing, the last thing on it remains the same: me.

Earlier this week, I was reading this post by Orangette about procrastination. In it, she reveals the painful admission by her partner that he went so far as to open a restaurant in order to avoid tackling his true love, which is composing music. Though my first reaction was slightly condescending, when I thought about it more, I had to admit that the post, and especially his honesty, unsettled me deeply. The thing is that I understood exactly what he was talking about. Most of my life has been a similar exercise in avoidance and procrastination closely followed by blame and self-recrimination.

(cue that phone call to the realtors)

But seeing as I am committing to changing things, I am first and foremost committing to complete transparency. So here it is: the ultimate irony is that I studied holistic health in order to help others much in the same way as Orangette’s Brandon opened their restaurant. I did it to avoid doing what I love most, which is writing fiction.

While I have been counselling others on how to make time for themselves, teaching them how to listen to their innermost desires, I have not been making time for myself. Worst of all, I have been trying to quiet my own dreams.

Often, I have told my clients (as well as written on this blog) that health is about much more than what is on your plate, that nutrition comes in many forms, with food being only one of them.

Luckily or unluckily – depending on how I’m feeling -- life has a way of bringing to the forefront that which you do your best to push as far into forgotten corners as possible.

2011 has been a year of taking stock. These last eight months have been filled with reminders that life is only borrowed, and health is delicate, and especially that neither of them is to be taken for granted.

(ok, checked email again. No, I will not buy your “at cost” supplements no matter how desperate I am to procrastinate)

Bad news hits me differently now. It cuts much deeper when juxtaposed with my daughter who has grown into a toddler way too quickly. Alongside death, riots, earthquakes and heart attacks, my baby girl – so aptly named after Life – is taking her first steps.

We went out for a walk yesterday morning in the quiet hours before the streets of our London neighbourhood woke up. Vida teetered along, shooting forward and then lurching back as she learns to balance on her own two feet. She held on to my one finger – the last remnant of her total dependence on me. My heart breaks as much as it soars at the thought that she will soon -- way too soon – be striding out on her own.

There are so many thrills mixed in with my sadness, excitement coupled with worries. It is the end of an era in her life, one that lasted forever and passed too quickly, before I truly had time to appreciate it.

Motherhood is soaked in cliché: the mixed emotions, the constant fears and incredible joys. Who knew a person could feel so many conflicting emotions at the same time? In the past few months, and especially the last few days, one thought has been coming back over and over: if I died tomorrow, not only would Vida Lev not remember me, I would have accomplished nothing in terms of the things I would really, truly like to before my life ends. If I die tomorrow, I will do so without having accomplished any of my personal goals.

I remember the first time I told someone that if I didn’t write fiction, no matter what else I achieved, I would feel like a failure. Hearing the words, I was shocked. It was as if someone else had said them, and yet I knew they were true.

When I look at the people who are successful in the food allergy / healthy living world – the inimitable Kriss Carr, the talented Meghan Telpner, the genuine Shauna Ahern to name a few – while I admire them, I don’t aspire to do what they do.

In fact, they say writing isn’t something you do, it’s who you are. But if you don’t do it, you are simply not honouring your self. And so the paradox of my situation is almost too blatant: how can I counsel others on how to live their most authentic lives if I’m not doing the same? How can I help people face their most terrifying fears if I’m avoiding looking my own in the eye?

(Dinner is made. Tried to call my mother, but she wasn’t home. Vida’s going to need a nap soon. Maybe I shouldn’t post this?)

My writing is often the last place I allow myself to go. And when I do get to it, it’s with a side-order of guilt because I should be spending my time finding new clients or taking care of my family. I have been working on the same novel for eight years now, in a constant battle over whether I have the right to devote time to it, whether anyone will ever read it, whether I even have the talent. The truth is that once my critical voice hushes, once I allow myself total immersion, nothing in the world makes me happier than to be writing. Every single professional decision I have ever made has been based on “having time to write.” Not that I ever do, because I don’t make that time.

Instead, I focus on trying to be the perfect mother, wife, on eating perfectly, on living perfectly and then I wonder why I’m not as happy as I could be.

No one enjoys walking around feeling like a failure – which is what I feel like when I’m not writing. So when healthy people die suddenly, it makes me wonder what I’m doing, why I’m wasting what precious little time I have feeling disappointed in myself.

With that in mind, I have decided to start living more honestly, devote myself to my writing and see what happens. There is no what if here, no agents, no publishers, just a woman wanting to really explore what it means to live my dream.

(photo: Catherine Farquharson)

When I counsel my clients on how to make changes, we set a time limit so it’ll feel less scary. Forever is a big word, and so we start with two weeks and then take it from there. This experiment is going to take a little longer: I have decided to give myself a year, 12 months starting from my 35^th birthday on October 12th.

For the duration of the year, I will be taking a Sabbatical from The Picky Foodie counselling and workshop services although I will continue blogging, so please keep checking here.

When I heard that Jennifer Perillo had lost her husband, I immediately thought she would be taking a long break from her blog. After all, didn’t she have other things to worry about? But instead she posted almost immediately. Because she loves what she does, she feels connected. And in reaching out, so many reached back and held her, hugged her, blogged about her and made pie. That is what happens when you live truly, honestly, courageously.

And so, as scary as it is to me, I am going to give my own version a shot. After all, nothing is worse than feeling like a failure for what you’re not doing. Better to fail because you gave it your all, in which case, ironically, failure is impossible.

August 8th, 2011: To a Stranger

Mon, 08 Aug 2011 20:51:00 GMT

A man I didn’t know died yesterday. I think he was pretty young. He had two daughters and a wife with a good sense of humour. He died suddenly, unexpectedly.

I know nothing about him, really. Nothing, that is, except what his wife tweeted since I started following her a few months ago.

I keep thinking of them and crying, feeling like my friend is grieving; and I keep trying to think of ways I can make things better. At the same time, I know there is nothing I can do.

Especially since I’m a stranger.

Blogs used to make me uncomfortable. I didn't understand who would want to reveal that much about themselves to total strangers. What was the point? But then, as is often the case with things we feel so strongly about, I started doing it myself. Blogging, for me, was a way to keep in touch with my friends and family as I traveled through parts of Asia. What surprised me most, however, was how much I enjoyed the fact that rather than writing in the vortex of a notebook or a hard drive, my words seemed to take on a life of their own, spurred by all the people who took the time to sit and read them -- wherever they were. By the time I started this blog, it was as much about the interactivity as the writing itself. Suddenly people were emailing me, reaching out from all over the place to let me know that this post or that had somehow touched them.

When I started blogging, I didn’t expect to find such a lovely community, to connect with so many people whose interests are similar to mine, who care about the things I care about. Through my blog, through Twitter – something else I didn't think much of in the beginning -- I have met many wonderful people, some of whom I have never exchanged a word with.

Like the beautiful woman who lost her husband yesterday. I say beautiful because that is what her words are -- and I read them as often as I can. This woman can write. She writes with courage, with honesty, with a fearless connection to herself. She writes the way I wish I could.

In a way, the Internet has pushed us all further apart, isolated us more. Why talk when you can email? But there is also the other side of that coin where those of us who do connect can do so unrelated to geography, or physical proximity. Instead, we connect through commonality – a love of food, of great writing, of life savoured.

We might not be friends perse, but that doesn't lessen the feeling of friendship. Especially when someone whose life you've been following is hurting.

I didn’t know this man, and I don’t know his wife and yet they made me come home and tell DW how much I love him, and hug Vida Lev a hundred more times than I usually do.

My thoughts and prayers go out to you @JenniferPerillo. Please know that you are not alone, and that when you are ready to write again, we will be reading. But in the mean time, there is a world out there that you and your husband and your girls have touched.

August 5th, 2011: When Life Gets Complicated, Bake Cookies

Sat, 06 Aug 2011 20:37:00 GMT

I meant to post the pineapple picture for a week. We were leaving to Israel and –is this weird? – I don’t like to advertise when we’re going away. DW calls me a “a healthy mix between constructive paranoid and psycho.” Possibly…

So I put up the photograph, and finished packing our bags.

It was supposed to be a relatively simple, fun family-reunion.

But then it all went pear-shaped.

First there was a family emergency. Five days of hell, while we waited for tests results and all kinds of levels to rise, fall and generally even out.

Then there was the aftermath when we all looked at one another in a state of shock and tried to enjoy what was left of the ummm holiday (?). However, nobody told Vida Lev that sleeping in was an option, so we remained exhausted even after three days at the beach.

I will say this: it wasn’t all bad. Vida swam in the ocean for the first time. She tried all kinds of interesting and fun things: petting her grandmother’s cat, watermelon, proper Middle Eastern hummus. Our little girl also took her first steps.

And in the middle of it all, I baked cookies.

There was something wonderfully soothing about mixing together the ingredients, sticking them in the oven, waiting for them to cool and then enjoying them. The mundane amidst the chaos reminds us that somewhere out there, life is still going on as normal.

Originally these cookies were intended so that Vida Lev would have something to nosh on when she got hungry in her pram. But when my grandmother tasted one and promptly requested that I show my mother how to make them, I thought I might be on to something. The deal was sealed when my brother – who hates raisins – happily polished them off.

Everyday Cookies

Preheat the oven to 175 Centigrade / 350 Fahrenheit

In a large mixing bowl, combine the following ingredients:
- 1 ½ - 2 cups ground almonds (less makes for a softer cookie, more makes for a heartier one)
- 2 t vanilla (I use pure vanilla bean powder)
- ¼ cup melted coconut oil
- ½ cup raisins
- ¼ cup maple syrup

Once those are well-combined, add
- 1 egg*

Using an ice cream scoop, drop the cookie batter on a non-stick baking sheet in even mounds. Flatten lightly with a wet fork (optional).
Bake for 9-11 minutes, depending on your oven. The cookies should come out of the oven slightly browned around the edges but still soft.
Allow to cool completely before serving.

* Note: a friend of mine made these without the egg (I simply forgot to mention it on the ingredients’ list). In her words: “These cookies are going to be a problem… We made them, licked the bowl clean and ate five between us.”
So I’m going to try this (vegan) version next time.
To my friend, I would like to say: Dearest, after the month that just passed, believe me, those should be our problems :)

UPDATE
I have now made these cookies without the egg -- so completely vegan. In fact, I even omitted the vanilla by accident (15 minutes to baby's bed time, empty fridge, food needed for tomorrow's outing -- you do the math). DW agreed to be the taster. He proclaimed them "Oh My God" and "better than with the egg," saying they tasted "buttery," and "like shortbread." I'll take that as a yes.
Without the egg, I baked the cookies as instructed above for 11 minutes. Then I turned the tray around, switched off the oven and left them in for another 10 or so.

July 8th, 2011: Remember to Breathe...

Thu, 07 Jul 2011 21:41:00 GMT

It was seven years ago today...

Tue, 05 Jul 2011 21:17:00 GMT

Seven years ago today, the man I had just broken up with drove me down the PCH and dropped me off at the home of the man who is now my husband.

We didn’t know it then. In fact, we had met two weeks earlier and knew very little about one another, seven years ago today. We certainly didn’t know we were in love.

Seven years on, and we know so much more. We know what we love deeper and what drives us mad, what makes the other who they are and what they wish they could change.

Seven years ago today, I sat on his couch and he said “I don’t know if you have plans for this afternoon, but I’m going to go look at some apartments on the beach.”

And I thought do I have plans??? I want to spend every second getting to know you better because if you’re as amazing as every cell in my body is telling me you are, then maybe you’re the man I want to be with.

Later on, we shared a salmon salad and walked along the ocean. He pointed out where Dudley Moore used to live to impress me. And in the evening, we had our first kiss and then he made up the sofa bed.

After seven years, I know he’s not perfect and he’s seen my flaws. But we make it work in our own way most of the time.

Someone launched a fun idea recently: make July 5^th Pie Day. So here is mine.

It’s really a testament to my relationship with the man whom I eventually married. Seven years ago today, the butterflies in my stomach told me he was someone special.

Of course, we have had to make our compromises. This banoffee pie is a really great metaphor for ours.

Like my husband, like marmite, like tea, banoffee pie is extremely English. But seeing as I am intolerant to pretty much everything in it – sugar, butter, condensed milk, biscuits (gluten) – I made a version I could enjoy as well.

Raw, vegan, gluten-free, no refined sugar.

It was hard work: I dehydrated the crust for 48 hours. The Banana part took a few tries as did the toffee because the ingredients I use are so unlike what makes a classic banoffee pie in both taste and texture. In fact I'm still tweaking, which is why I am not posting the recipe. (what can I say, it's all a work in progress)

The final product was, possibly comparable, possibly completely different. Regardless, it was rich and decadent, much like its original inspiration. Most importantly, it was delicious.

Seven years ago today, if you’d told me that this would be my life – living in London, married to DW, mother of an amazing little girl, writing this blog, making raw vegan pie -- I wouldn’t have believed you. And yet, we make it work, each one of us in the way that makes life as palatable and tasty as we possibly can.

July 1st, 2011: Congratulations, New York

Fri, 01 Jul 2011 19:27:00 GMT

This week, New York passed a law legalizing gay marriage.

Like most people I know and love, I am overjoyed. But I also have a personal reason to celebrate.

When I was growing up, gay was weird, scary, a name the meaner kids hurled at you to indicate there was something wrong with you.

My father is gay.

He never came out to me. Instead, I found out by accident, when reading a book – one of those teenage coming-of-age novels where the parents are divorced and the protagonist is trying desperately to figure out where she fits in. The father in the book had a best friend who was always coming over – just like my Dad – and, much like my father’s buddy, the best friend was an excellent cook. At the end of the story, the girl’s dad admits that Greg is more than just a friend…

I couldn’t just come out and ask him though. My father wasn’t that kind of person.

Two years passed. I studied every reaction, made note of anything that could hint at some kind of clear-cut answer. Was that hug they shared a little too close? Why was the best friend using his spoon to give my Dad a taste of his dinner? As a child, I loved the Harriet the Spy series, and now I had a chance to use those skills for my own research. Sadly, Harriet ends up losing all her friends and as he felt me watching him, my father became increasingly uncomfortable. Our relationship became fraught, difficult. He blamed my adolescence but I know now that it was to do with the secret I was making it more and more difficult for him to keep.

(even today, as I write these words, I still feel a chill running up my spine)

Secrets were popular when I was growing up. Around me everyone had secrets: secret lovers in other cities, secret children with former flames or personal assistants. Somehow, though, sexuality was different.

“I wouldn’t talk like that,” a kid in my seventh grade class retorted when I told him to shut up, “if MY father was like yours.”

The rumour mill in my hometown is a Monster. Created by bored housewives and perpetuated by their husbands and best friends, it has a life of its own. Constantly starving for new prey, this Beast feeds off the weak, the deceived, the deceptions.

My father, forbade me from telling anyone. I was completely alone bar the one person I confided in. When someone else hinted at it, I attacked my confidante thinking she had betrayed my trust.

Then there was the day I read a story in Time magazine, written by a girl my age who had sewn a square on the AIDS quilt in memory of her father. It was a tiny sidebar, a barely noticeable post scriptum, but it changed my life. There were two of us!

Growing up in a small community was hard for someone like me. From day 1, I was an outsider – having moved at age six, there was only my mother, my father, my brother and I, when almost everyone else seemed to be related. I didn’t fit in. And then there was our family secret. It took me a long time to find out that everyone knew because nobody talked about it.

The problem with secrets is that the people keeping them are always the last to know when it’s not longer a secret. You are afraid of every word that comes out of your mouth, of even accidentally alluding to what you know you shouldn’t. You become obsessed with the one thing that’s off-limits. Everything sounds like it could be a tip-off.

It’s so clear now how deeply this secret affected me and the course of life.

Secrets are the opposite of healthy. They sit like a knot in your stomach, clamping down on your digestive system and your ability to openly love.

My first period, which I got while on vacation with my dad. The time(s) when my boyfriends were older than his. The tasteless meals, the charred BBQs, the people I met, the Thanksgiving when he wore a blue shirt with white stars and red and white striped suspenders. The words he uses when referring to my mother or women in general. His obsession with cars and expressions like "you can lead a horse to water but you can't make it drink." All of these things are about him, what kind of person he is, what kind of father he is. If you know my father, you know what I'm talking about. But none of this has to do with his sexual preference. And it's about time people realized it.

So I rejoiced this week for New York City. Because allowing people to get married – regardless of gender, age, class, sexual preference -- is the right thing to do. But also because I hope and pray that no one ever again needs to grow up with the burden of keeping the kinds of secrets I did, not for their parents, not for themselves.

I leave you with this celebratory green smoothie.

Pride Green Smoothie

Ingredients:
- 1 cup frozen raspberries
- 3/4 cup frozen blueberries
- 1 frozen banana
- 1 handful spicy rocket (arugula)
- ¼ cup water or more (you need enough so the blender can do its job but this mixture needs to remain thick like ice cream so add 1 T at a time)
- 1 t cacao nibs and coconut flakes (to sprinkle on top, optional)

Instructions:
Blend greens and the water until completely broken down. Then add the frozen fruit and blend until a thick ice cream like texture forms – you want to do this as fast as possible to ensure it will remain as cold as possible.
Sprinkle cacao nibs and coconut flakes if using.

Go outside, put your feet up, sit in the sun and enjoy with a small spoon, sloooooowly.

June 24th, 2011: From Pulp to Paris

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 11:12:00 GMT

I have tried to write this post about six times. I tried to turn it into a fairy tale, tried to tack the main point onto another, bigger point, tried to make it funny. But really, all of those attempts simply missed the point. The point, this week, is pulp. And frankly, pulp is quite tricky to embellish.

People often ask me what the difference is between green smoothies and green juice. In a word: pulp. In juices the pulp is removed while smoothies blend the entire fruit or vegetable and so retain the pulp.

What is pulp? Simply put, Pulp is fibre.

I could go on about the additional nutritional benefits, but I won’t. Not today.

One of the things that often happens when people start changing their dietary habits is that food becomes little more than a single or grouping of multiple nutrients. Nuts are fat, rice is carbohydrate, fruit is sugar, chicken is protein. And while these foods do contain said components, they are also made up of other things. Foods in their most natural, whole state strike a unique balance between fats, carbohydrates and protein. For example, did you know that apples have fat?

But I won’t go into that. Not today.

Whenever we go to Paris, I am struck by how different the attitude there is towards food. In the US as well as in the UK, conversations are often about calcium and omega 3s and protein. In Paris, those things don’t come up in the same way. The cliché is true, at least as far as I’m concerned: in Paris food is about enjoyment.

When I embarked on this journey to health, I found it quite difficult to find tasty foods that also satisfied my various needs and made me feel good. Often labels that read “healthy” should have stated “bland” or “ridiculously over-flavoured,” “strangely textured,” or “plain old disgusting” instead.

I could write an entire book on the subject.

But I won’t. Not today.

Today is about those sweet meals when feeling good meets delicious, about discovering lovely flavours and foods, about being full of energy, happy, nourished, loving life and what we’ve eaten.

When I say this, I’m pretty sure pulp isn’t the first thing that comes to mind.

And yet, today, pulp is where it’s at.

When I started juicing, I was loathe to throw such beautiful leftovers away. And pretty soon, our compost heap was overflowing. So I tried everything: I baked pulp cookies and muffins, I incorporated it into salads, I even attempted pulp ice cream. Let’s just say there’s a reason I’m not sharing any of those recipes with you today.

This veggie burger is different. For one, it doesn’t have the mushy, soggy taste that pulp can have. Secondly, I love that it’s a flavoursome version of another “healthy” yet often gross food. Veggie burgers are usually overprocessed, with huge amounts of sodium, rancid fats and strange additives.

Pulp, meet Burger. Burger, meet pulp.

Carrot Veggie Burgers
(makes about 20 small to medium patties)

Carrot juice is abundant in vitamin A, B, C, D, E, G, K calcium and potassium, it acts as a normaliser to the entire system – and that is just the tip of the iceberg. Carrot juice is also fantastic for breastfeeding mothers as it enhances the quality of the milk. It is, however, also relatively high in natural sugars.

A note about carrot pulp: I’m pretty sure you can use other juiced vegetables, like courgette (zucchini) or, if you’re not a juicing person, grating should be an option. The most important piece in making these guys is the removal of excess liquid (see below).

Ingredients:
- pulp of 1.5 kg juiced carrots
- 1 cup onion/mushroom mixture (see below)
- 1 garlic clove, minced
- ¼ t fresh thyme
- ½ c fresh parsley, chopped
- ¼ t cumin
- 1 T wakame flakes
- 1 t mirin
- 1 T tomato sauce (made with just tomatoes)
- ¼ t chipotle powder (optional)
- salt, to taste
- 4 eggs*
- coconut oil to grease the pan

Directions:
For the onion/mushroom mixture:
In a wide-rimmed pan, bring about a cm of water to boil. Chop up 2-3 onions and 3 large portobellos and add to the water along with a sprig or two of fresh rosemary and thyme. Salt to taste. Reduce the heat and allow to simmer for about 45 minutes, adding water so it doesn’t dry up. The goal is to keep the vegetables moist without drowning them – you don’t want to end up with soup. What you want are well-cooked, flavoursome, slightly browned onions. At the very end, mix in 1 T coconut aminos (or soy sauce).

For the veggie burgers:
Preheat the oven to 175 degrees Centigrade (347 Fahrenheit)

Place the carrot pulp in a strainer and press down with a spoon to drain excess liquid. (note: you can place a bowl underneath for extra drinking pleasure)

Put in a large bowl and mix in all the other ingredients except the eggs. Taste and adjust the seasoning, then add the eggs.

Grease a large baking pan with a little bit of coconut oil.

Using an ice cream scoop, scoop out balls of the mixture and set on the baking sheet. Press down lightly with a fork to flatten into patties.

Bake for 25 minutes, flip and bake for another 20.

* To keep this recipe vegan, you can use ground, soaked flax seeds in a ratio of 1T flax soaked in 1T water to 1 egg. In this case, I would halve the amount, so use 2 T ground, soaked flax though I haven’t tried it myself.

June 17th, 2011: Sensitive Questions and a Potato Salad

Fri, 17 Jun 2011 07:50:00 GMT

I had a post written and ready to put up. Completed, done, signed, sealed, deli--- then I had a conversation with a woman about life insurance. Because when you’re an adult, you need to talk about things like that. Eesh.

So we talked about death, this woman and I, and how much DW would get, how much I would get in the event of. Somehow every amount of money sounds ridiculous. “We’re sorry for your loss, but here’s the cash we agreed to pay you.”

Now I know, rationally, as an adult, that this is a necessary step to take, but the rest of me was screaming about how wrong all of this was.

Still, I sat through the thirty-eight minutes of questions – do you have a terrible illness? Have you had a terrible illness? Have your parents had a terrible illness? Do you envisage getting a terrible illness? Is there any reason to suspect you will have a terrible illness at some point?

Some questions made me laugh: do you regularly go potholing or bungee jumping?

Other questions were downright terrifying: about alcoholism and drug abuse, about family histories and previous health problems. I wondered how people who do suffer such afflictions feel having to divulge God knows what to the stranger reading the questionnaire on auto-pilot.

What does this have to do with food, health and general Picky Foodie themes, you ask?

Well after this young lady had finished making sure my kidneys, liver, lungs and heart have no history of crapping out on me, after she had made sure that I don’t have any STDs, that I’m not HIV positive and that I don’t suffer from psychosis, neurosis or other psychiatric problems, she said “I’m very sorry but I’m going to have to ask you a sensitive question…” she hesitated. Then she got the courage to continue: “What is your dress size?”

Uh, what?

I couldn’t resist: “THAT is your sensitive question?”

I’ll let you come to your own conclusions on just how ridiculous that conversation was. But in honour of my waistline and yours, I would like to share a lovely New Potato salad recipe. It keeps well, travels well and fills you up regardless of your dress size.

Let me say this: I’m not a fan of the popular potato (I know, I don’t drink nor do I like potatoes. And yet, I live in England.). Last week, at the farmer’s market, however, DW mentioned how much he would enjoy some from time to time. As fate would have it, a great looking spud salad was featured on one of my favourite mainstream recipe sites – Food52. This is the second time I make this dish in as many weeks, and the second time it disappears remarkably quickly.

New Potato Salad
(adapted from Food52)

The key to this recipe is to make it while the potatoes are still warm so they can soak up the lovely vinaigrette. Prep time is around a half hour from start to finish. It keeps well in the refrigerator for a few days and is hearty enough for grey summer days yet refreshing enough for sunny picnics.

- 1 kg new potatoes, scrubbed and cut into large bite-sized pieces
- 1 T ume plum vinegar
- 100 gr rocket (arugula)
- 2 T fresh chives, finely chopped
- 2 spring onions, finely chopped
- 1 T mustard
- 1 T balsamic vinegar
- 1 T pomegranate vinegar (optional–replace with an additional T of balsamic)
- 2 T olive oil
- ½ t salt or to taste

Bring the potatoes to a boil in a pot of water. Cook for about 10 minutes, until soft but not mushy. Drain and put in a large salad bowl.

Add the ume vinegar and salt to the potatoes and mix gently so the potatoes pieces stay more of less whole. Then gently mix in the chives and spring onions.

For the vinaigrette: whisk together the mustard, vinegar and olive oil. Pour over the potatoes and mix in well.

At this point, the mixture should still be relatively warm. Now is the time to add the rocket (arugula).

Serve warm or at room temperature.

June 10th, 2011: There is no Magic Pill.

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 09:16:00 GMT

This past weekend was pure bliss. Vida and I had DW back after a looming deadline, and we took full advantage of family time including a wonderful, long walk on Hampstead Heath.

Hampstead Heath is, without a doubt, my favourite part of London. DW and I were commenting this weekend that over the past few years, we have walked there season after season celebrating, arguing, commemorating, taking moments to breath. If the Heath could talk, it would know our most intimate secrets.

Our little girl loves it too now. She points at the dogs, has long naps while we wander, watches the ducks in the ponds. It has gorgeous wilder bits and beautiful manicured gardens. Even a farmer’s market on Saturdays.

This weekend, the Heath was filled with thousands of people, mostly women, in pink, Walking for a Cure to Cancer. There were older women, younger women, women with bunny ears on, women who had tied themselves together to bring home the message that Cancer affects us all, mothers walking with their daughters, sisters, friends, co-workers. It was quite a sight.

In the past few weeks, I have been excited about the WISH Summit. WISH stands for Women’s International Summit for Health and it was set up by a beautiful vegan, raw foodist Warrior Woman named Tera Warner. She seems to be on a fabulous mission to get us all thinking about ways in which we can improve our health.

While I was really enjoying the interviews she conducted with forty experts in every field of health – spiritual, physical, emotional, social, financial, etc – one thing that really got me thinking was her crusade against the pink ribbon.

As we all know, pink ribbons are the symbol of our fight against breast cancer. How could someone who is so interested in promoting women’s health be so vocal against the research for a cure?

Tera, however, made, and kept making a really great point: it’s all fine and good for science to come up with pills and other technology to help us, but what about helping ourselves? People want some kind of magic pill that will take away the cancer, without taking responsibility and making changes to their diet, lifestyle and state of mind.

At first, I felt her powerful words were quite jarring. Why bash the amazing work of researchers trying to eradicate such a devastating illness? Surely people couldn’t be that callous? Surely they would attack the problem from all angles?

But last weekend, on Hampstead Heath, watching these women who had raised money, who were walking to increase awareness trudge by, I got a clear answer:

The young woman couldn’t have been older than twenty-two or three. She was clearly obese and sweating profusely. Her skin was grey and sallow and she had deep dark circles under her eyes. The pink outfit she was wearing was tight, as if it understood the irony of the situation and didn’t want to give any more than necessary. And, as she puffed up a very small hill, our friend took a nice, long, delicious drag of a cigarette!

Now I realize that breast cancer – the most prevalent form of the illness in women – isn’t lung cancer – the second most common cancer among women. But seriously, who are we kidding here?

Please, people, let’s take responsibility for our bodies, our health, our lives! I’m not saying that science doesn’t occupy a vitally important place within the realm of health and illness, but there are so many things we can do to help ourselves first and foremost.

According to Dr. Dean Ornish (and others), illnesses like diabetes, hypertension and cardiovascular disease are 100% preventable and even reversible through diet and lifestyle. Other studies have found a 70% inhibition of tumour growth in prostate cancer when subjects made dietary and lifestyle changes alone.

That’s telling us something – and I don’t think magic pills were mentioned.

June 3rd, 2011: Memories of Textures Past and Another Dessert Recipe

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 09:15:00 GMT

So I have a thing about textures.

I love watching my baby girl explore them with as much relish as I do. With "gentle hands," she timidly runs her fingers along rose petals, the patterns of our green sofa, my skin. And so too with food.

In the beginning, I found it almost painful to feed her plain pieces of roasted sweet potato. How plain, how goopy, how dull. I want to scrape my tongue at the very thought. But Vida Lev is still learning about the vast expanse of flavors, textures and food experiences there are to be had and she loves her sweet potato as is. In fact, she is teaching me to simplify, enjoy, or at least taste things on their own before I add spices, herbs and other foods.

Textures and flavors - to me, both factors determine the quality of a dish. When something really stands out, it is because a balance has been obtained between them. Personally, I prefer stark contrasts – hot and cold, crunchy and chewy, sweet and savory, wet and dry. Like fleur de sel on a good praline. Or fruit in a salad.

Next time you’re hungry and can’t figure out what you’re truly wanting, try closing your eyes and asking yourself what texture you desire. Is it soft or hard? Doughy or bitty? Wet or dry?

When I was about thirteen, we spent a summer on Lake Muscoca up in Canada. And while I remember the trampoline and the rickety old diving board that felt as if it was going to topple every time one of us dared to scoot to the end of it, my most vivid memories have to do with food.

The popcorn my aunt would make, it's salty crunchiness that was unlike the kind we got at the movies back home (where they only sold it covered in sugar -- horrendous!). A few moments after the inevitable bellow of the fire alarm, she would present the warm bowl of crisp, white kernels. We would sit around grabbing handfuls as we looked up at the stars. Being a city girl, it was the first time I had seen such the night sky so clearly. And while I loved lying back on the recliner and calling out every time I glimpsed a shooting star, what I was most focused on was the popcorn in my mouth. I loved dousing it in fake butter and popping each kernel into my mouth where I could maneuver it into the perfect position, with my teeth sunk in the cavity just below the sharper, popped edges and my tongue running along the rounder bit.

I remember the bacon, the likes of which I had never tasted before. It was fresh, crispier than potato chips and crackled vigorously in my mouth.

For years, I associated Canada with bacon, popcorn and beer coolers, which we stole sips of when the adults weren’t looking.

By far my favorite discovery, however, was the locally made Rocky Road ice cream. The cottage my family had rented sat alone on a tiny island that was only accessible by boat. Whenever groceries were needed someone would have to go to the mainland.

Even then, way before I had any interest in cooking or health, I loved supermarkets. Especially that summer. Because tagging along with whomever's turn it was to shop meant a scoop of Rocky Road.

Growing up in Belgium meant that there was never a shortage of the highest quality sweet treats. But this ice cream beat even the most prestigious chocolatiers.

Looking back now, I realize that what seduced me wasn't the sweetness or even wonderfully artificial flavors. It was the balance of textures: crunchy nuts, gooey marshmallows, sticky caramel, creamy ice cream. Each one was present in just the right amount, and as a result, the flavors melded as if they weren’t meant to be enjoyed separately.

This past year, I really focused on nuts and seeds. Not because I love them (though I do), but rather because I craved their oily crunch. Almost everything I made involved Nuts.

Then, when I decided to follow the Naturopath's suggestion and remove them from my diet, I panicked. That very night, I made a warm salad... Sans nuts. And it wasn't half bad.

Within about three days, I felt better than I had in months. I didn't feel as deprived as I had feared. In fact, I didn't feel deprived at all. The only thing I missed was the texture, the added kick in my mouth that balanced out chewy, stringy, dry or wet. But that too faded as I focused on creating and discovering new nut-free dishes instead.

Textures have as much of an emotional component as flavours: like when I'm sad and crave doughy foods. I might want savoury - like bread - or sweet - like brownies. But really, it's the texture that I crave and find comfort in.

Way back when, before I could put words to these preferences, I sat on that dock many a time as the sun started to set, twirling my Tongue in my mouth like a dreamcatcher, angling for a taste of every sumtuous part of the magical combination. Every bite had potential, and while I didn't know it yet, I had already embarked on my journey -- in search of that elusive perfect bite.

Coconut Squares & Jam (a raw recipe)
(adapted from the very awesome bonzaiaphrodite.com)

Been on a bit of a dessert kick lately – like for the past 30-something years! When a couple of good friends had a baby this week, I figured it was the perfect opportunity to try these puppies out. Of course, I couldn’t not tinker with it and add my personal touches. As you can see from the name, however, in this house, food aside, we’ve got Dr. Seuss on the brain.

This recipe is simple, quick and child-friendly. Coconut oil is a thyroid booster, the dried fruit is sweet with a little tang. Feel free to use any dried fruit, but make sure to adjust the amount of sweetener accordingly.

For the crust:
2 cups coconut flour
1 cup coconut water
1/3 x2 cup coconut oil
½ cup maple syrup
1 t vanilla powder
1/2 t cinnamon
pinch salt

Melt the coconut oil in a bain de Marie. Sift the flour to remove any lumps. Add the cinnamon, salt and vanilla. Once the oil is melted, mix in along with the coconut water and maple syrup. Use your hands to really create a beautiful robust dough.

Line a cookie pan (8 ½ x 12 inch or 21.5 x 30 cm) with parchment paper. Flatten the dough evenly. Refrigerate.

For the jam topping:
2 cups dried, unsulphured apricots
1 cup dried sour cherries (unsweetened)
1/8 cup raisins
3+ cups water
juice of 1 orange
zest of 1 medium lemon

Combine the dried fruit in a bowl. Cover with just enough water. Allow to soak for as long as you have – fifteen minutes to make the crust, or overnight if you have the time.

Once soft, put the fruit in the food processor, keeping the soak water to add as necessary. Start with ½ cup of the water as well as the freshly squeezed orange juice and process until you’ve got the beginning of a jam-like texture. Then add the fresh lemon zest and process until relatively but not completely smooth.

To make the squares:
Spread the jam evenly over the crust. Refrigerate for a couple of hours at least. Then cut into squares.

Keep in an airtight container in the fridge.

May 27th, 2011: Sweet Treats

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 09:13:00 GMT

This has been the year of the baby. Everyone I know, it seems – including me – has had one. Or maybe it’s because I was attending crazy things like preggo yoga, that suddenly my life was filled with bulging bellies and talk about sleep positions and cravings.

Anyhoo, that isn’t my point. My point is cake.

All of these babies are marking milestones, having birthdays, and generally celebrating; as are their parents. I have attended many a little party this year with sproglets who are barely walking wearing funny hats, doing funny dances, looking surprised as everyone around them bursts into song. And eating cake. Store bought cake, home made cake, improvised cake, pre-ordered cake. Cake.

This past weekend was my own baby’s birthday. It was a weekend I’ll never forget. We went to the zoo so she could see all the animals we read about. We had a picnic with friends of all ages – and little Vida Lev made out like a bandit from all their generous gifts.

But again, I digress. The subject is cake.

We mark milestones with cake. We eat cake on birthdays. We celebrate with cake.

And although these little people still have developing taste buds, we feed them cake and start them down the path of cake. Cake for “well done.” Cake for “congratulations.” Cake for “s/he’s a jolly good fellow.” Why? Why are foods that aren’t healthy, don’t fortify or nutrify us considered “treats”? It would be one thing if we felt great after indulging but, more often than not, we feel guilty, or worse.

Why do we do it to ourselves and why do we do it to our children?

Vida Lev is one year old. She would celebrate with avocado if that was on offer. Or a great afternoon at the zoo. In Vida’s world, food doesn’t yet come into the equation as a way of celebrating.

For her party, I felt stuck in a little bit of a catch 22: do I make a cake and start her down that path – a path she has no idea exists – or do I resist the urge and feel like I’m depriving her?

One thing I’ve noticed about motherhood is that there is rarely a blatantly “right” answer. I’m constantly wondering whether I am scarring her for life J.

But we were talking about cake…

In the end, I did make cake. Raw, vegan, carrot cake sweetened with dates and a touch of coconut nectar. And raw vegan chocolate chip cookies. So yes, it could have been worse. But still, when I think of how Vida’s first taste of a sugary food took place on the day we celebrated her arrival into the world, I cringe a little.

(by the way, if you’re still wondering whether sugar really is THAT bad, take a look at this New York Times article)

In my better moments, I savour the knowledge that she loved her day, and loved that people kept singing to her, and her cookies and cake. In moments of doubt, I remember that she was a little more hyper that day (could have been as a result of all the presents and attention, could also have been the sugar, could have been both) and a little grumpier the next.

Mostly, I wonder over and over why we enjoy making ourselves feel bad, or worse, causing actual harm to our health when we’re supposed to be celebrating?

That cake question, by the way, easily translates to alcohol. Adults often mark occasions and celebrations by getting extremely drunk. The next day, they complain bitterly, but there seems, to me, to be an underlying sense of pride. I got shitfaced, how great am I? How, I ask myself, does that say hip hip hooray to the greatness of life?

Why doesn’t a green smoothie serve the same purpose? It’s sweet, it’s intoxicating (in the broader sense of the term), and it does a body good. I know … it doesn’t do it for me either… (I blame the media – or maybe the Pope)

But this isn’t a post about alcohol. Or even green smoothies. It’s a post about cake. I made cake. So here are the recipes for the cake and cookies I made on Vida Lev’s birthday.

Please note that these are not my original but rather great recipes ones that I found and adapted. The internet is a new mother’s best friend after all!

Vida Lev’s first birthday treats

Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough Cookies
(makes about 50 silver dollar-sized cookies)
(adapted from www.ohsheglows.com)

For the cookie dough:
1 ¾ cups raw cashews
1 ½ cups raw oats
¼ cup coconut nectar
2 t vanilla powder
¼ cup melted coconut oil

For the chocolate chips:
1/8 cup melted coconut oil
¼ cup melted cacao butter
½ cup cacao powder (unsweetened)
1 ½ T carob liquid (unsweetened)
2 t vanilla powder
3/4t lucuma (optional)
2 T coconut nectar

To make the chocolate chips: Melt the coconut oil and cacao butter in a bain de marie. Once it’s completely liquid, stir in the cacao powder followed by the carob, vanilla, lucuma and coconut nectar. Spread onto a teflex sheet or some greaseproof paper, making sure the thick, sticky mixture is relatively uniform and no thicker than about half an inch. Put in the fridge (if you have more time) or freezer to set.

To make the dough: Grind the nuts and oats in the food processor until you get a powder. Then add the other ingredients and process until a sticky ball forms. Refrigerate until you can make the cookies (when the chocolate is ready).

For the cookies: When the chocolate has set, chop into small pieces (or chips, if you will). With you hands, fold into the dough – this is when the refrigeration is helpful as the chips won’t melt as quickly though you do have to be relatively fast.

You can use a small ice cream scoop to create relatively uniformly sized cookies. Press down with a fork. Keep refrigerated until they’re ready to serve.

Note: If you don’t have ingredients like coconut nectar, I’m sure you can replace this with maple syrup, date syrup or honey. The lucuma is optional, as if the carob though I love the extra depth it lends to the chocolate. And if you don’t have cacao butter handy, I would play around with the quantities of coconut oil and cacao powder.

Raw Carrot Cake with Vanilla Macadamia frosting
(adapted from Twobluelemons.com)

For the cake:
4 cups shredded carrots (about 1.5 lbs)
1 cup pitted dates (about 16)
¾ cup dried, unsulphered apricots
1 ½ cups unsweetened shredded coconut
½ cup raisins
1 t vanilla (the original recipe calls for cinnamon, but Vida has had a bad reaction to it)
¼ t nutmeg
¼ t allspice

For the frosting:
¾ cup raw cashews, soaked overnight
¾ cup raw macadamias, soaked overnight
1.5 T coconut nectar
1 T melted coconut oil
3 T water

To Make the cake:
Grate the carrots using the grater attachment in the food processor. Then transfer to a large mixing bowl.
In the food processor, using the blade attachment, combine the dates, apricots until combined. Mix in with the shredded carrots (best done by hand)
Once again, using the food processor, combine ½ cup coconut with the raisins and pulse until they are broken into little bits. Add the spices and pulse until well mixed then combine in the mixing bowl with the carrot, etc.
Kneed well with your hands until it’s all mixed and sticks together well. Then spread onto an 8 ½ x 12 inch (21.5 x 30 cm) baking tray lined with greaseproof paper and refrigerate.

To Make the frosting:
Soak the cashews and macadamias overnight. Drain and rinse. Process with 3 T water until a thick paste forms (this could take a while – keep scraping down the sides). Meanwhile melt the coconut oil in a Bain de Marie. Once the nuts are fully smooth, add the other ingredients and process briefly.

Spread the frosting over the cake and refrigerate until ready to serve.

May 20th, 2011: Happy 1st Birthday Vida Lev -- The Story of My Daughter's Magical Home Birth

Fri, 24 Jun 2011 20:55:00 GMT

My daughter, Vida Lev, was born on May 20^th, 2010 at 11:09 p.m.

She weighed 7 pounds, 12 oz and measured 55 cm.

Vida was born at home, in what will one day be her bedroom, in a birthing pool, lit only by beeswax candles. She was given to me while her umbilical cord was still attached and pulsing, and then, after he cut the cord, her father held her while I birthed the placenta.

In the first days after her birth, we found ourselves staring at her for hours on end. One of the most amazing things was to see her make the movements I had felt in my stomach. I recognized them, kind of like you recognize a stranger in a café as the person you’re supposed to be meeting: although I had never seen them before, my daughter’s movements were completely familiar. In fact, from the minute she was born, I felt as if I had known her forever.

Of course this story starts long before the day Vida was born – exactly one year ago today. It starts with one woman – me, her mother – and one man – DW, her father – and every single event and experience that shaped us into the people we are. Why do I say this? Because one of my first thoughts when I found out I was pregnant was: with all my emotional baggage, how in the world am I going to do this? And what, exactly, is “this”?

A wonderful yoga teacher kept reminding us that birth was just the beginning, and that, really, the important part comes afterwards. But we were obsessed and didn’t listen. Where would our child be born? Was labour really that painful? What if it all went horribly wrong? In hindsight, I can only compare Vida’s birth to my wedding day: we got so involved in planning the minutiae of the day itself, but really the celebration lies in being married -- or parenting.

DW was at a friend’s stag weekend when I found out that I was pregnant. I had been feeling pretty emotional and “PMSy” and craving bananas and peanut butter (two things I almost never ate at the time). My cycles were exceptionally long and so I would often take pregnancy tests – which is what I decided to do. It was such a habit by then that I barely glanced at the results before tossing the stick into the garbage. However, as I heard it clunk at the bottom of the bin, I thought something had looked different. So I retrieved the test and… well, it was positive.

I couldn’t believe it and immediately retested. The second one malfunctioned: it read “error.” So I ran out and bought more – I think I did the test four more times. They all said the same thing.

Part of me wanted to tell DW in person but I simply couldn’t wait two whole days. So I called him.

“Where are you?” I asked, “are you alone?”

He said he was standing at the top of a hill outside a yurt – the only non-drunk person there. And yes, he was on his own.

I breathed in deeply, unable to fully fill my lungs, and told him.

He was stunned but ecstatic.

Only when he got back did the panic descend: I had been told a year before that my progesterone levels were low and that miscarriage was pretty much inevitable. The only way to know whether the situation had changed was to get a scan. But although they said things were potentially looking good, it was too early to know for sure whether I was, in fact pregnant. They asked me to wait a week. Exactly seven days later, we confirmed that the little chickpea-shape in my uterus was the very beginning of a baby. The better news was that it seemed that in the 10 months since the last scan, my progesterone issue had been resolved.

We waited the requisite twelve weeks before we breathed a first, tentative, sigh of relief. Then came the hurdle of homebirth.

People ask me all the time how I decided to give birth at home. The truth is that I didn’t – the decision was simply there, already made. I guess it’s comparable to most women who assume they are going to give birth in the hospital – that’s just the way it is.

The rest of the world wasn’t as easily convinced. First came the hurdle of the GP. When I told her, she shook her head, “that could be very dangerous. Maybe with a second or third child,” she told me, “but we don’t recommend it for a first.” I returned home dejected but not discouraged.

My main challenge, however, was my husband. DW is a big believer in allopathic medicine and science. He was by no means ready to forego what he considered the safety of the hospital. In his mind choosing to have the baby at home entailed many more potentially dangerous and even fatal outcomes. Unfortunately, I didn’t yet have the knowledge to dissuade him of his fears.

Many people think home births are confined to a small percentage of the population – the same people who keep cows named Lenin for the milk, make their own shoes out of oats, and believe we are committing plant genocide when we eat salad. In fact, nothing could be further from the truth; and as DW and I started to read up on the subject, we discovered that there are people from all walks of life embarking on this most wonderful adventure.

More importantly, we found out that although we have been conditioned to fear birth outside the medicalized model, alternative places, ways and methods of bringing life into this world are no less dangerous than their interventionist counterparts. The more DW researched, clearer the choice became. In the end, he didn’t just come around to the idea of having a home birth – he became quite an outspoken advocate for it.

The first thing that surprised him were the statistics: numerous studies have shown that for low-risk pregnancies, giving birth at home is no more dangerous than being in a hospital. Secondly, his research made it clear that my chances of having a straightforward delivery would drastically increase if I was relaxed and at ease during labour.

(I’m not saying this is the right choice for everyone. It was for me.)

My preference was to be in my own environment, making choices based solely on my needs. I wanted nothing to do with others’ beliefs, shifts, schedules or political agendas during the birth of my child. I wanted no bright lights, no metal instruments, no internal examinations, no bleached gowns that showed my backside – in fact, my preference was to be naked, and that would have been impossible had I been surrounded by strangers. Lastly, I felt it was important that I be allowed to eat whatever and whenever I wanted, that I be able to move around freely and that the only people present be those I knew and trusted.

While we were still considering our options, we decided to explore the independent midwife route. Enter Elke. At the routine prenatal check-ups at the hospital, DW had been relegated to a corner of the room. Nobody had addressed him, or involved him in any way. When we met Elke, she asked both of us what we wanted, paying the same amount of attention to DW’s wishes and desires as she did to mine. When she left, we both felt comfortable enough to hug this lovely woman. Still, I found it strange: you have a cup of tea with a person and then decide whether they will help bring your child into the world (“Do you take milk? And when do you clamp the cord?”).

Birth is an instinctual process: from your choice of mate, to the actual creation of the child, to the decisions about delivery, everything happens in the gut. And so we hired Elke and never looked back.

Over the coming months, we got to know our midwives – Elke and Sandesh, they work in teams of two – and they got to know us to the point where they knew when to take my worries seriously and when I was simply a first-time mother-to-be sending herself into unnecessary panic.

My pregnancy was pretty smooth. Cravings were few but I did want French fries and mayonnaise on a regular basis (in case you’re wondering, yes, I did eat – and love – them!). Stranger yet were the foods that became unpalatable. Two usual favourites, hummus and coconut, were banned – I couldn’t even look at them without feeling queasy. Until one day, about five months in, standing at a local favourite deli, I simply HAD to have some of their hummus. And it needed to be with sugarless blueberry jam on a brown rice cracker. It was my very own pregnancy-induced version of PB&J – luckily for DW, the craving hit at 3 in the afternoon, not the middle of the night!

As my due date approached, we tested out the birth pool, purchased the essential oils, and other necessities and waited… Our biggest fear was that I would be overdue to the point where I would need to be induced, thereby ruling out a home birth. I tried not to stress about it, having read enough to know that there was little I could do (pineapple and curry were staples in my diet throughout my pregnancy, so those wouldn’t have worked anyway.)

The due date was May 23^rd (coincidentally also the date on which DW had asked me to marry him three years prior). I took my time getting things ready as everybody had assured me that the vast, vast majority of first babies arrive late. On Tuesday, May 18^th, I finished the first draft of a novel I had been working on for a few years. On Wednesday the 19^th, I put on the earrings I had worn on my wedding day.

DW had read up on ways in which he would be able to tell if I was in labour and kept pestering me with questions like “do you have diarrhoea?” to know whether I had, in fact, started the process. But my answers were consistent: “NO” and “leave me alone!”

On Wednesday, May 19^th, Sandesh, came for a scheduled visit. We spoke at length about what we could expect if the pregnancy ended up going beyond the forty-two weeks allowed by the National Health Service. It was important to find out how long we would have before an induction would be recommended, and what we could do to help bring on labour ourselves if need be. Sandesh was very calm and reassuring – unlike us. One woman, she told us, had safely delivered after having carried her child for almost 44 weeks.

It’s funny how your own past starts to play a strong role. I was induced and feel it has affected me throughout my life – something I was never really aware of until I became pregnant myself. DW was six weeks late (no that is not a typo). He also wasn’t too into the idea of induction unless it was medically necessary. They say that the risk of complications doubles when a pregnancy goes over a certain number of weeks. However, what they don’t specify is that in the case of those statistics, “double” means from 0.2 to 0.4% or something like that. Also, they don’t know how many of those complications were pre-existing or would have happened anyway… Precise data is murky to say the least. Still, it doesn’t stop “well meaning” medical staff from using it as a scaremongering tactic.

In the end, we didn’t need all that information: at 2:30 in the morning on that very same night, I woke up feeling the need to pee. By that point, I was so enormous and constantly needing the loo anyway, that it didn’t strike me as extraordinary. Until I felt some liquid trickle between my legs. I was horrified! Had I peed in my bed? Then I thought maybe it wasn’t urine… maybe it was… was I in labour??? I got up as quickly as my massive belly would allow and made my way to the bathroom, trailing liquid behind me. The test was whether I could stop it from leaking out of me by flexing my internal muscles (do your kegels, ladies!). I quickly discovered that I could not – labour had started.

I tried to wake DW quietly – my voice sounded bizarre, much calmer than I felt.

“I think my waters just broke.”

He made me laugh when he shot out of bed as if it had caught fire. We had been preparing for this moment for months and months and yet we were completely unprepared.

DW quickly dialled Elke who very calmly, patiently and kindly – especially seeing as it was three in the morning -- told him to rest up. There was a long road ahead and we should get as much sleep as we could.

I’ll never forget the look on his face as he stood on the landing just outside the bedroom and beamed. “Here we go, sweetheart,” he said, his voice full.

Though DW was able to sleep for another couple of hours, I lay awake feeling each contraction as it came and went. The sensation was strange, new and while it wasn’t necessarily a comfortable sensation, it wasn’t painful either. I listened to my husband’s deep breathing and realized, maybe for the first time, that it wasn’t going to be the two of us anymore.

In the morning, we got up at 8:30 and started going about our day. Everything seemed normal except that every so often, when the onset of a contraction, I would stop, bend over and breathe deeply.

Also, instead of my usual superfood breakfast smoothie, I asked DW for a full English (minus the meat bits -- bacon, black pudding, etc). Again, DW beamed. He happily went about preparing the beans, eggs and tomatoes and toasting the freshly baked gluten free bread. We talked schedules, did the dishes. We called Elke again who asked whether she should come over to check on my progress. I said I didn’t think it was necessary; I might still have a long way to go.

In the end, although it seemed strange to have such a massive breakfast, having exactly what I desired was a great thing as it powered me through most of the next 15 hours.

We had bought the DVD box set of Fawlty Towers for the occasion, but I had no desire to be anywhere near a television. My preference would have been to be out in nature, and I kept saying I wanted to go for a walk on Hampstead Heath. But the twenty minutes it would have taken to get there were too much, so I sat in our little garden instead, drawing with oil pastels, something I hadn’t done in months.

DW kept asking me whether I wanted him to fill the birth pool. He had been religiously timing the contractions until Elke told him it wasn’t necessary at this stage. So he tried – unsuccessfully – to distract himself.

At about 4:30, we called Elke again. This time, however, when she asked whether I wanted her to come, I said I did.

“Would 6 be OK?” she asked.

“That’ll be fine.” I said.

About an hour later I asked DW to start filling the pool.

When I told the story a year ago, people kept wondering how I knew. The answer is, I didn’t consciously know anything. But some part of me, deep down was acutely aware of what was about to happen.

I am also often asked whether I was scared. The true answer is that during these early stages of labour, I wasn’t the least bit afraid. The same part of me that knew what was about to happen knew that I was born to do this. And I was in my own home, surrounded by my things and accompanied by my husband and the midwives whom I had grown to trust -- fear didn’t occur to me. That came later, and it had little to do with where I was or who was with me.

The gears started to shift around 5:30 in the evening. By the time Elke arrived at about 6:30, the contractions had intensified and I had gone deeper into myself. The first thing I said to her was “you’re not going anywhere tonight” quickly followed by “can I get into the pool now?”

I think I was in there before Elke had finished nodding!

Being in the birth pool was wonderful -- feeling the water flow over and around my belly with every contraction was incredible. In between surges, we chatted a little, although they were getting stronger and closer together.

DW kept inquiring whether I wanted to eat anything. We had stocked up on favourites like coconut water, bananas and almond butter. I had made popsicles with fresh fruit and honey, having heard that they could be very helpful during labour. But the last thing I wanted was food and every time he asked, I was overcome with nausea. Finally, I told him I would let him know if and when I needed anything.

With every surge, I would focus on my breathing and try to keep my exhalations longer than my inhalations (a tip DW had picked up from a development executive at one of his work meetings in the previous months J).

Every time I thought it couldn’t get worse, it did, though only for a split second after which the pain would disappear completely (note: this is why I prefer the term “surges” rather than “contractions”).

I tried to focus on the fact that each surge was bringing my baby closer to me, but that only brought home the enormity of what was happening more powerfully.

When I opened my eyes, I had a need to see DW. At some point, he left for a few moments to make himself a snack. I panicked. “What is he doing?” I demanded, “making himself a gourmet meal for one?” Though I didn’t want to speak to him – and there was a funny moment when I asked him to get into the pool and massage my back only to yell “don’t touch me!” the second his knee touched the water -- knowing he was there made me feel safe.

Suddenly, after having been in the pool for a good long time, I needed to get out. Elke recommended I kneel by the bed but it wasn’t comfortable and after a few attempts, I lay down on it instead. This only exacerbated the pain (how women give birth lying on their backs is a mystery). Apparently, I announced “I can’t do this.” I don’t remember that now – in my recollection, the most difficult moments came later. What I do know is how strong the urge was to lie down, if only for a moment, to gather my strength. When I got up again, I felt more energized. I paced through the hall, climbed up and down the stairs, I danced my hips in a figure eight motion.

It had gotten dark by then. Someone had lit the four big beeswax candles we had bought for the occasion – the only light I could tolerate, and even then, from a distance. Sandesh had arrived although she remained quietly on the stairs.

Elke stayed with me. She recommended I try sitting on the toilet – a position that is apparently very conducive to the birth process. Not mine. Staying still was not an option for me, and sitting there made the pain unbearable. So instead, I clung to a drying rack we have in the bathroom and when a surge arrived, I would drop into a squat. I know now that labour and birthing is about movement. Looking back, I am grateful for all the long walks and the yoga that kept me in fantastic shape. I was on the move for hours and hours – dancing, pacing, dropping into squats, getting the baby and my body into the right position for everything to go smoothly.

But the physical journey is only part of it. There is a whole other aspect of giving birth that transcends the tangible. All I can say is that my belief system has profoundly shifted since I giving birth. Later on, I told DW I had gone to retrieve our child from the place where fairy tales live. I will try to explain it a little bit here, but am very aware of the shortcomings of my words even as I write them.

As a result of the abuse I endured in my own childhood, I was convinced that I would not be able to birth a life. I was terrified that my baby would be stillborn. During transition, that fear resurfaced. Even though Elke was monitoring the strong and beautiful heartbeat, I didn’t believe the child would survive its passage through my birth canal.

I read somewhere that a woman must face her demons in order to give birth. That is exactly what happened. My lack of faith in my own capacity had a profound effect on my labour: I suddenly got stuck. Part of me didn’t want to progress as that would surely mean the child inside me would die.

Chronology is lost at this point, but two things helped thrust me past this: The first one was a simple phrase that DW uttered. “Let go,” he said, “let go.” I repeated it over and over like a mantra. “Let go. Let go.” And slowly, I did. Secondly, I asked Elke to stop monitoring the baby’s heartbeat. Not hearing that beautiful and terrifying sound for a few minutes somehow removed a huge pressure. If I couldn’t hear it, then I wouldn’t hear it stop. I was able to forget my fears and focus on other things – like pushing the baby out. I had gone to a deep, dark place, a heavily wooded area filled with shadows and monsters. When I arrived at a clearing, our baby was waiting for me in a patch of magnificent light. I can still see her there when I look down at her sleeping face as I write this. How can I explain this without sounding completely bonkers? I knew the second she arrived in my womb, physically too tiny to be seen in a scan yet she was already the person she is today. And so too when I found her at the end of my battle through the darkest corners of labour-land.

A pure, intense clarity came over me followed by the urge to push. I told them that I needed to get back into the pool. Sandesh urged me to sip some warm water with honey she had prepared, which gave me an extra boost.

Our daughter was born soon after that. A few good, hard pushes, some long, loud cries (and other strange sounds), an intense burning sensation, and out she came. I don’t remember what I said to DW, only that I knew her already, that it wasn’t the first time we had met. I held her close and she latched on immediately. Again, words fail me.

I spent the next few hours – the next few days – in a state of bliss, ecstasy, serenity like nothing I have ever known. Though life has more or less returned to “normal”, with it’s ups and downs, its everyday irritations and joys and crap, that feeling still lingers. And when the world around me quiets down for just a minute, when I take a moment to breathe, I can still see the tingly, shimmery shadows of it.

Our daughter was examined and cleaned. I showered. We all got into bed. I held her as she suckled and squirmed and slept.

At about two in the morning, the midwives offered to bring us up some food.

“Be careful what you ask for,” Elke warned, “you will remember it for the rest of your life.”

She was right. Never has gluten free toast with almond butter and prune jam tasted so incredible. It was worthy of Michelin stars. DW and I munched on our meal, staring at the magical little being between us, completely, totally, madly in love. Finally, he fell asleep. I stayed awake, watching my new little family until the first rays of sun appeared.

I came out of my birth experience transformed. No longer do the chains of my childhood have as strong a hold on me. The difficulties of the past make me sad, but it’s almost as if it happened to someone else, or in a book I read – the kind that is so well written that you can almost imagine it being real. My past is no longer a trauma like it used to be. Instead, it has become a learning experience that I embrace as my guide for the kind of parent I want to be.

We decided to call her Vida (which means Life in Spanish) Lev (Heart in Hebrew) – and never has a child been more aptly named. As my own mother says, there is me before Vida and me since Vida was born.

Happy birthday to my beautiful, magical, incredible baby girl. Thank you for the best, most powerful, terrifying, electrifying, inspiring, difficult, tiring, energizing, challenging, wonderful, fun, joyful, year of my life.

May 13th, 2011: Your Wallet, Your Vote + a simple courgette (zucchini) recipe

Thu, 30 Jun 2011 09:13:00 GMT

The other day a well-meaning friend and I were talking about chicken. This is a person who cares about the environment and is raising her kids in a conscientious and responsible way. When I asked her why she didn’t buy the chickens from the store nearest us, she looked at me with a smile and said “I can’t afford them.”

This isn’t the first time someone has indicated that my choice to eat the way I do is based on the fact that I can afford to do so. I thought nothing of it and got on with my day. A few hours later, however, it realized how angry I was. My anger wasn’t directed towards this person but rather at the concept that to eat “healthy” you have to have money.

First of all, what does anyone know about anyone else’s finances or monetary decisions?

But, more importantly, my choice is not (just) a question of economics. It is, however, about what I am able to afford. I am able to afford healthy food because I can’t afford to be ill. I am able to afford the nutritional choices that I make because I can’t afford to trudge through my days with low-energy. I simply can’t afford to while away my time at doctors’ offices or in bed, with aches and pains and sniffles. Being down, or borderline depressed isn’t something I can afford.

Mankind didn’t always eat this much meat. In the past, servings were the opposite of what they are now: vegetables weren’t side dishes, meat was. I’m not a yuppie health freak – or maybe I am; regardless of labels, what I am interested in is feeling well, being happy, sucking every last second out of life, be it in my exercise routine, in my job, in my relationship, in my work and, of course, in every second I spend with my daughter.

Yes, I choose to eat mostly organic produce. And I get as much as I can from farmers’ markets or from the farm deliveries (the UK equivalent of a CFA in the US). Yes, when I do eat animal protein, I choose to do so from sustainably, humanely raised animals.

Some fruits and vegetables are sprayed more than others – so if you’re watching your wallet (and who isn’t these days), you can educate yourself as to which ones are more important to buy organic. Check out the Environment Working Groups’s list of which fruits and vegetables are most/least sprayed for more information.

And is having meat, fish, eggs or poultry every single day actually healthy?

If your answer to my previous question was yes, I invite you to read Michael Pollan, Dr. Dean Ornish and Colin T Campbell for starters. Mr. Pollan isn't vegan, he doesn't have blue hair, nor does he live in a teeppee (or a yurt). But he does advocate that we "eat food. Not too much. Mostly plants." And with good reason. Dr Ornish has demonstrated time and again through clinical research that people can reverse coronary heart disease through diet and lifestyle. T Colin Campbell is a Professor Emeritus at Cornell with more than seventy years of research experience. He also grew up on a dairy farm.

We vote with our money, we send messages to huge corporations and small farmers with the food choices we make. I can’t afford to spend mine on chickens who are fed chemical crap, crammed in cages smaller then their bodies, with no access to light, fresh air, the outdoors. I can’t afford to eat GM vegetables topped with pesticide sauce. I can’t afford to not think about where my food is coming from – not as a mother thinking of my child’s future, not as an inhabitant of this earth, not as a woman concerned with my own health.

Interesting articles and further reading on the subject:
- The LA Times on routine antibiotic use in animals
- Moms for antibiotic awareness
- A recent study comparing supermarket prices to those at farmer’s markets

And now for the zucchini recipe...
In the past few months, I have been a little remiss about posting recipes. You see, right now, my time in the kitchen is extremely limited. These days, it's more about throwing things together in fifteen seconds than being able to spend hours testing, tasting and perfecting. That is my life as a new mother, apparently. To be honest, I wouldn't mind so much except for this blog. So, I kept putting off posting new recipes because they weren't as exact as I wanted them to be. But for now, I guess my life is going to be more chaotic, my time is going to be minimal -- maybe you'll indulge me in less formal posts, dishes and measurements for a while. For my part, I promise I won't post recipes that are any less than wonderfully delicious.

Zucchini and herb salad with broccoli flowers
(serves 2-3 as a starter or a side dish)

- 3 good sized zucchini / courgettes
- 1/3 hard pear
- approx. 1/2 cup fresh chives, finely chopped
- approx. 1/8 cup fresh mint, chopped
- approx. 3/4 cup rocket (arugula), roughly chopped
- handful broccoli flowers
- sprinkle of rock salt
- 1/2 T balsamic vinegar
- splash of good olive oil.

Preheat the oven to 200 degrees Centigrade (392 Fahrenheit).

Cut the zucchini into three pieces and then cut those pieces into quarters, lengthwise. Spread on a baking tray.
Using a sharp knife, cut the pear into slivers as thin as you can get them, and then sprinkle over the zucchini.

Roast for about 20 -25 minutes (check and shake after about 15 minutes to make sure they don't burn.)

At the bottom of your salad bowl, whisk together the olive oil and vinegar.
Combine the mint, chives, and rocket and mix.

When the zucchini is soft but still has a crunch, pull it out of the oven (the pear should have darker edges by now but it shouldn't be burned). Allow to cool for a few minutes and then add to the herbs in the salad bowl Mix well, sprinkle with some rock salt and broccoli flowers and serve immediately.

May 6th, 2011: The Thyroid (part 2)

Fri, 06 May 2011 08:57:00 GMT

So what can be done to help boost an underactive thyroid?

First of all, cut out the processed food. OK, you say, but Gabriela, you would tell me to do that anyway.

Yes, you’re right. And your thyroid is one more great reason to do so…

But what else is there?

Last week, I gave a bunch of yoga teachers-in-training a talk about nutrition during pregnancy. Of course the question of soy came up and I had to admit that although some of my closest friends are soy-lovers, I personally consider it devil’s food.

Simply put: soy messes with your hormones.

Your thyroid is all about the hormones.

I’ll let you connect the dots.

If you have to have it, try and stick to the fermented kind like miso or tempeh.

Other foods that can inhibit a properly functioning thyroid include brassica vegetables like bok choy, broccoli, Brussels sprouts, cauliflower, kale, collards, mustard greens, tatsoi and turnips. And other goitrogens: peanuts, millet, strawberries, pears, peaches, spinach, sweet potatoes.

The good news, however, is that cooking most of the vegetables above will lower their harmful effects.

There are the PUFAs, of course, which I mentioned in my last thyroid post.

Lastly, fluoride is a nasty little bastard that acts more or less like a poison on the thyroid. If you drink tap water or use a tabletop filter, chances are you’re ingesting way more fluoride than you think.

And I have to say this: caffeine has been said to act as a thyroid suppressant… So much for that morning java boost!

But what am I going to eat??? And how am I going to brush my teeth?

OK, OK, don’t have a cow!

Do I go through life without broccoli, kale or sweet potatoes? Not a chance! Moderation, dear Watson. Ask yourself: Is that food worth it? Do I really want it? Will it make me feel good? These are constructive questions to ask anyway, but keeping your thyroid in mind offers one more incentive.

If you’ve ever woken up the morning after a “good” / “healthy” meal and wondered why you feel like you’ve been hit by a fast-moving bus, maybe it’s time to check the ingredients of your dinner, as well as get a blood test to get your thyroid levels checked.

But rest assured, it’s not all bad news: micronutrients like selenium (found in Brazil nuts), magnesium (chocolate has the highest levels of magnesium of any food, but you can also try nuts, legumes, and cumin) and zinc (good sources are sesame seeds, pumpkin seeds and chocolate; and for the omnivores, try oysters and lamb) are beneficial to the thyroid. Also, sea vegetables – and especially kelp -- provide iodine, which is necessary for proper thyroid function. And coconut oil is widely used to boost thyroid levels as well as metabolism.

As for my own thyroid? Since removing the PUFAs from my diet (you can read more about this in thyroid part 1), I have seen a remarkable boost in my energy levels and what I affectionately called my post pregnancy camel hump has massively decreased. What never ceases to amaze me is how quickly I feel the effects of every food decision – the good ones as well as the bad.

P.S. Of course there is one more thing you can do to help an underactive thyroid ... Exercise. But I'm sure you knew that already.