Juicing: The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly

After I watched "Fat, Sick and Nearly Dead" a couple of weeks ago, I simply couldn't understand why everyone in the USA wasn't walking around wearing juicer backpacks or creating a permanent home for their Breville on their office desks or kitchen counters. "Why, in heaven's name, isn't everyone juicing!!" I asked myself. The documentary clearly outlined the benefits of juicing and the neon green concoction everyone sipped at throughout the film looked funky and cool.

In the days after I watched the movie, I didn't get all over-ambitious and commit to a 30 day fast. I didn't ever commit to a "fast" of any sort. I simply said that I would substitute one or two meals a day with a rich, healthy juice, giving my body the extra boost it needed. My in-laws were kind enough to lend us their juicer so I loaded up my Costco cart with every fruit or vegetable I could get my hands on.

"I love fruits and veggies," I told myself. This couldn't be that difficult.

And then I started juicing.

I now have a new found respect for anyone who juices. And by "juicing", I mean real juicing.

If you are new to the whole "juicing" scene, you have to know the basics, which I have only discovered in the past two weeks.

First of all, if you want to get the true benefits of juicing, you are technically not supposed to combine vegetables with any other fruits other than apples. That, personally, was a fatal blow to my juicing life. It meant that the kiwi-apple-grape-orange-celery-kale-spinach combo I had been drinking wasn't actually doing for my body what I had hoped. Don't get me wrong; it was absolutely better for me to drink a juice versus a milkshake. But my body wasn't absorbing all the nutrients and vitamins from the juice because of the way I combined the fruits and vegetables. It has something to do with enzymes and is far too technical for me to understand or explain.

Secondly, you shouldn't eat any solid foods in combination with your juice. That meant that the banana-and-almond butter-chaser I had after my "Mean Green" was illegal in the juicing world. Seriously, though, I could not bear the thought of conducting the rest of my day with that aftertaste in my mouth; my father-in-law called it "dog pee" and he wasn't far off.

Thirdly, juicing should be primarily used for vegetables, not fruits. The rule of thumb is to "juice your vegetables and eat your fruits" because the fiber in whole fruit is easy for your body to digest and helps your system deal with the sugar content of the fruit. That's not to say that you shouldn't drink fruit juice, but it should be a very small percentage of your juicing diet.

So yesterday, in an attempt to create a vegetable juice that I could stomach, I turned my kitchen into a laboratory of sorts. I juiced about 6 different vegetables separately and then mixed them using different combinations for each one, desperately looking for something I could hold down.

Alas, I never found it.

Honestly, I will eat just about anything under the sun, so the fact that I could not create a vegetable juice that didn't leave me gagging with each sip was very disconcerting. I felt an incredible amount of envy towards my juicer friends who told me that I would love beet juice and carrot-fennel-parsley-garlic juice. Why had God given them those Herculean tastebuds while I couldn't even gulp down a mouthful of mere carrot juice?

But after the disappointment lifted, I accepted what I did have: a love for raw fruits and veggies. So I've decided that since I don't have an auto-immune disease that requires serious healing for my body like the guys in the film, I'm going to get back to eating more fruits and vegetables each day in their solid, raw state, while throwing in the occasional, palatable juice. That's something I can do and something I really enjoy. And if the time should come when my body needs extraordinary healing, I'll put my lab coat back on.

If you are at the point now where you need that kind of intense healing for your body, here are some links about juicing, food combining, and juice recipes (the sidebar of this website has different categories to choose from like "Juicing for the Liver" or "Juicing for Kidneys"--very helpful). And while it wasn't a complete success for me, I still wholeheartedly believe in the power of juicing. So if you have any tips, recipes, or testimonials you'd like to share, please do so below--I'd love to hear your perspective!

An Apology to My Countertops

To my dearest Kitchen Countertops,

I am sorry.

You, my dears, were created for a higher purpose. Built upon sturdy columns of wood, you stand ready to endure the force of my knife as a chop down the round bulbs of onion and garlic, the sturdy lengths of carrots and celery, the coarse sweetness of ginger. Your ruggedness was meant to endure the pounding of pots and pans, laden mixing bowls, sauced ladles, and battered spatulas.

But unused you set, as I hasten past you, delivering dictation for spelling class or toting clean laundry from the dryer to the living room. You lower yourself to uphold misplaced math books and displaced legos, pastel pink and purple hairbrushes and bottles of ibuprofen. You do your duty quietly, and without complaint.

Yet, I know you aspire to more. You desire to be used for what you were created. You long to feel the heat of a simmering soup, the cold of rare meat, the lightness of fresh cilantro.

You want to cook.

Frankly, so do I.

And I will…eventually. One day I will cook more than a bowl of oatmeal, boil water for more than a cup of tea, slice more than a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. One day I will cook again.

But not today.

Sincerest Apologies,

Me

Kids in the Kitchen: Gift from Heaven or Hell?

Let me paint a scene for you:
In a dimly lit kitchen, a bedraggled young woman hunches over a steaming pot of soup while being serenaded by the cries of her 1-year old son as he struggles in her arms, hungry more for sleep than for food.
As she shushes the baby and stirs the pot, her 3 year old daughter tugs innocently at the mother’s pant leg and proudly announces “Mama, I made a pee pee in my undies,” the evidence of this truth in a pale yellow pool at the little girl’s feet. The mother groans, sets the pot off the heat, and begins the task of cleaning up her daughter with a still screaming toddler on her hip.
Ten minutes later, the mother calls all 4 children to the table and sets the warm bowls of soup before her four hungry children. As she turns from the table, heading towards the chore of washing the dishes from the meal preparation, she hears her oldest son shout out, “Mama, I don’t like this! Can’t I have something else?” and the plea is echoed by each of the younger children either in word or in deed, bowls being pushed away accompanied by faces of sheer disgust.
The mother stops mid stride and in a calm and controlled tone, says “No, you may not have something else to eat and if those bowls are not licked clean in the two seconds it takes me to turn around, I will go straight to my bedroom, find each of your birth certificates, burn them, then load you all in the car, and return you to the hospital from whence you came. Do…you…understand…me?”

Obviously, the woman showcased above is NOT me. I would never, ever even entertain the thought of saying such a thing to any child. Coincidentally, I happen to have 4 little lovelies living in my house called “my children”. Most of the time, I think they are divine, the most wonderfully diverse and delicious creations ever given to a mother.

And then dinnertime comes…and I want a refund.

That is, until about 3 weeks ago. I finally decided to try out this age old advice: “If you let your kids cook it, they’ll eat it.” When I first heard the idea, I thought, “Obviously, these people don’t actually have any children”. When I stumbled across the idea yet again, I thought, “Obviously, these people don’t have my children”.

Truthfully, I’m giving my kids a bit of a bad rap here. If I was a raw vegan foodist, I would have hit the jackpot with my kids. They’ll eat bowls of sliced peppers, apples, and strawberries faster than I can cut them. But if you cook the peppers or the apples, forget about it. And they were getting to the point where they turned their noses up to absolutely everything I set before them that wasn’t spaghetti or chili, and I simply could not stomach another bowl of either. I was burnt out.

So I decided to put my two oldest kids in charge of cooking. The first week they each picked a dinner recipe and a dessert recipe that they wanted to make. My seven-year old, Cade, of course, chose a new kind of cinnamon-laced chili (so adventurous) and Mocha Latte Ice Cream (he’s addicted to coffee and he’s only 7—thanks MeMe) while my 6-year old, Lucy, chose Red Beans and Rice (chili-esque, I know) and Valentine’s Lemon cut-out cookies (they both HATE lemon-flavored anything but I guess she was mesmerized by the heart-shape).

However, the outcome of this little experiment amazed both my husband and I. First of all, the kids took such pride in their creations. When it came time to set the table for their dinner, they declined any help we gave them and they insisted on serving everyone their meals. When Lucy tried to put cups of water on the table, Cade actually said, “Don’t worry about it, Luce. I’ll take care of everything. You just sit down and relax.” Wow. I’m still speechless.

Second of all, they ate food, with relish might I add, that they would not have touched, let alone consumed, if I had made it. My kids are notorious for hating mushrooms, but the night that Lucy made her meal with big chunks of mushrooms dotted among the beans and rice, they eagerly munched each one, proclaiming “Aren’t those mushrooms yummy, Mama!”

Lastly, they were so encouraging and respectful of each other, even when they didn’t like something. They always told the cook that their meal was wonderful, even if their face had the opposite response. After each meal, they took a vote, “if you think this recipe is a keeper, raise your hand!” and inevitably everyone raised their hands and that night’s chef would beam with pride.

Now we are in the midst of our 4th week and we have no plans of stopping. Just last night as Lucy and I were cooking her meal together, she turned to me and said, “I love cooking with you, Mama. It’s so much fun.” Too cute.

So I’d love to hear from any of you out there that may have similar (or opposite) experiences with including your kids in cooking! And tomorrow I’m going to share one of my favorite "kid-cooked" meals so far!

Hawaii via First-Class Postage

As a child, I can remember once or twice a year the mailman would stop his white and blue jeep at our front curb and carry a large and ridiculously taped box to our front porch. Oh, the excitement that boiled up inside me when I saw that package covered in my Grandma Silva’s careful hand-writing and her tropical address—Honolulu, HI!

I knew what exactly what awaited me inside: a large pail of fortune cookies and frosted ginger wafers that my brothers and I would snack on for the next 3 days, eventually fighting over who got the last fortune cookie or who had to settle for the less desirable sesame seed crackers. Looking back, I see things a little differently. I’m sure my dad enjoyed those boxes for far different reasons than us sugar-greedy little kids.

That box held a small sampling of his homeland, the foods that he had loved and longed for since his move to the mainland when he married my mom. Dried seaweed, li hing mui seeds, char sui and curry seasonings, sushi cones, macadamia nuts, each of these he would lift from the box and set on the kitchen counter, his tribute to the beauty of Hawaii in the mundane and flat surroundings of western Ohio.

Funny enough, I can identify with the feelings my dad probably had all those years ago. When Shawn and I lived in England for 4 years, I had the wonderful luxury of my mom visiting me about every 3 months or so. And every time she came, she would stuff her suitcase with all the edible comforts of the States: Fruity Pebbles cereal for me, Lucky Charms for Shawn, Oreos, pretzels and easy cheese, anything with peanut butter and chocolate (the English don’t really go for that combo)… Wow, I’m beginning to see that my list isn’t nearly as impressive as my dad’s was. It seems he was looking for culture and I was just looking for a quick sugar high. I think my list might be a little different if I lived away now, at least I’d like to think so.

What would that suitcase include for you? Are there foods that just transport you back home no matter how far away you travel?

Fairs and Failure

When I married Shawn 11years ago, I did it because I simply couldn’t imagine spending another day without him in my life. Honestly, I just loved his company. Marriage was a scary prospect to me at the time because my parents’ relationship was always tumultuous and I didn’t want to end up in a failed marriage, but I took the plunge because Shawn was too lovely to pass up.

And honestly, I still feel that way today. I love him being around. While some women sigh a breath of relief when their husbands go away for a business trip or a weekend with their buddies, I get all sad and anxious and weepy like a 5-year old missing her favorite teddy bear. I’m sure my feminist self back in my college days would be thoroughly embarrassed by my behavior, but it is what it is. He’s just plain old good fun, and who doesn’t like to have fun, right?

So every year in September when Shawn leaves for 10 days to help his parents’ run their PA Dutch Foods stand at The Great Frederick Fair, I get a little melancholy the few days beforehand, but then the thought of those delicious ham and cheese sandwiches and hot, buttery Auntie Anne’s Soft Pretzels that I get to eat when I go visit him take the blues away and replace them with excitement. You all know I love to eat, and the fair is an eater’s paradise.

But this year, now that our children are getting a little older and are less dependent on me, I ended up going to the fair to work with Shawn and also to try to sell some of my homemade cookies at the stand. This was my first year trying this little venture, and I have to admit, I was really nervous about it. “What if no one buys any?” I kept asking Shawn. Thankfully, he comes from a long line of optimists, and kept replying, “Don’t worry, hon. They’ll buy ‘em.”

So I lugged a big black plastic container down to the fair with all my Costco sized ingredients and Kitchen Aid mixer in it and got to work. During the slower hours in the morning and mid-afternoon, I mixed up dough and baked giant cookies and kept pressing my fears down into my gut. “It’ll be fine,” I’d tell myself. “If no one buys them, then you are out $150. That’s not so bad.” But what I learned about myself is that losing the money wasn’t the issue; it was the thought of failure.

I don’t know about you, but I hate to fail at things. I tend to only do what I know I can succeed at. That’s all fine and well if you want to live a boring, no excitement kind of life. While failure completely sucks, you also can’t deny that it always has an element of thrill to it because when you step out and take a chance, there is always the possibility of success. So, completely out of character for this play-it-safe kind of girl, I took a chance.

And someone actually bought a cookie.

In fact, 440 someones bought cookies, and I was giddy as my 2-year-old when she gets a stick of gum. But you know, I think I would have been just fine if no one had. God showed me that failure isn’t nearly as bad as never having taken a chance in the first place. Heck, if 11 years ago I wouldn’t have taken a chance on Shawn, I wouldn’t have this decade plus of wonderful memories and adventures with my best friend or my 4 beautiful little babes.

Lesson learned.

But I must say a heartfelt “Thank You” to my parents for taking on the task of watching my children while I was away at the fair. Without them I couldn’t have chased this silly little baker’s dream. Thanks so much, Mom and Dad. I love you both more than words.

And I know there was some mention earlier this week of the infamous Butterfinger Cookie recipe making an appearance. Well, I’ve decided to keep it secret a little while longer. In celebration of my tenth cooking class participant, I will post the much coveted recipe. So I would greatly appreciate if you could help me in getting the word out about my class by simply telling your friends and family about it or by sharing the link to my blog on your facebook page. You could even put in a couple kind words about me and my class if you’re feeling extra generous. Thanks so much for all your help and hope you all have a great weekend!

Mai Time in the Kitchen is Going Live!

When we lived in Northern Virginia, one of the most anticipated pieces of mail I would receive twice a year was a listing of Adult Education Classes that our local school district ran in the Fall and Spring. No lie, when I sensed the time of their catalog circulation drawing nie, I would anxiously flip through the stack of mail each afternoon, until finally, after weeks of anticipation and worry (of course, it always evolves into worry with me: did they take me off their mailing list? Did the mailman put it in the wrong mailbox? I really am ashamed of myself), finally the thin pamphlet would arrive, and my eyes would quickly scan through the offerings of ESL and cross-stitching classes, till they lit upon their treasure: cooking classes.

Within 10 minutes of receiving the catalog, I’d have the registration form and check in a stamped envelope back in the mailbox, heading out to the registrar to reserve my spot in my beloved cooking class. One time, mind you, one time, a class got booked before I was able to enroll so I quickly learned that a fast turn-around was important if I didn’t want to get left out.

I know, it’s a little extreme for a silly little cooking class, right? Wrong. I’m a homeschooling mother of 4 small kids. Opportunities to mingle with creatures who don’t play with their poop or giggle uncontrollably at the mention of the word “poop” are few and far between. Sometimes that time away at cooking class was the only thing keeping me out of the loony bin.

But that’s not all. I truly adore cooking and to spend two hours of my evening listening to someone talking about cooking and then feeding me outrageously good food at the end of it all was simply a slice of heaven to me.

And the teacher, well, she was a treat. Michelle was probably around 55 years old with a wild mop of curly brown hair and an unnaturally cheery disposition. I loved her from the moment I layed eyes on her. She made me feel like nothing, no recipe, technique, or ingredient, could be too difficult to conquer. I learned so much from her, but most of all, I learned to have confidence in my cooking.

Since moving to Lancaster, I’ve really missed my classes with Michelle. Occasionally, when I would sit at the table watching her whisking and chatting away about the time she hosted a dinner for a Saudi Arabian prince, I’d think, “I’d like to do what she’s doing one day. I can’t think of a job I’d like better.”

Well, I’ve decided that today is that day. “Mai Time in the Kitchen” is going live! I’m inviting you, or anyone you know who might be interested, to join me for a cooking class entitled “Holiday Beginnings and Endings”. This class will take place from 7-9pm at The Family Center of Gap beginning Tuesday, October 26th and will continue each Tuesday night through November 16th. The cost is $95 and will cover the food and materials for all four weeks. In the class I’ll cook up some new recipes for the old holiday appetizer and dessert standby’s: no more chips and salsa or boxed brownies, folks. From a Caramel Pumpkin Cake that converted me into a cake-lover to the most divine Spinach, Feta, and Bacon Stuffed Mushrooms, you will come away with a plethora of new recipes to spice up your holiday menu and have a chance at the end of each class to sample all the goodies!

I'm limiting the class to 12 participants so if you are interested, please email me at maileshawn@yahoo.com. Thanks, everybody! And later this week I will relay the story of my adventures at The Great Frederick Fair last week and my grand cookie experiment. I might even be convinced to pass along my much coveted Butterfinger Cookie recipe if the mood hits me just right. Till then!

Mai's Food-Buying Theory (well, sort of)

Since I started this blog several months ago, I've had a number of people email me, wondering what my take is on the whole subject of eating organic. It's kind of the cool thing to do nowadays, but when you have to count your pennies, I think a person begins to wonder if it's really worth the cost. I know I do.

And then, just to add confusion to the issue, suddenly "organic" is getting edged out by the new push to eat "local". There's a real debate going on the food world as to which is really better for the environment and our health. I recently read an article that did a pretty good job of outlining the pros and cons of each so check it out here if you're looking for a bit of guidance.

As for me, my food-buying theory has kind of evolved over the past couple of years. When my husband and I lived in England, I remember reading an interview with Hugh Fearnley-Whittingstall, the author of The River Cottage Cookbook. (Side note: This cookbook is seriously hard-core. I mean, he goes into detail about how to raise your own meat and then butcher it, the whole nine yards. I don't really have a stomach for that sort of thing, but this guy really knows his stuff about "real food" and was one of the fore-runners of this movement. If you find that sort of animal husbandry stuff interesting, you definitely want to check out his books.)

Anyway, in this interview, one of the questions asked was something along the line of "If you have to pick one thing that a person should always buy organic, what would it be?" His answer: Anything that comes from an animal. The theory is that the feed, hormones, and antibiotics they give animals in non-organic farming is far more detrimental to our health than the pesticides that you pick up with conventionally farmed produce and grains. That's one guy's opinion, and it just kind of stuck with me, especially as I read articles of young girls getting breast cancer and starting puberty at younger and younger ages. So I really try, when I can afford it, to spend my money on organic meat and dairy.

When it comes to produce, I really try my best to by local as much as I can. Granted, we live in a part of the country where you past at least one roadside stand for every mile you drive on these country roads. It's really a foodie's paradise. But I know that not everyone has that luxury. Before we moved here, I didn't. But we did have a farmer's market once a week in our town which I tried to frequent as much as possible. The point is, eating local means I get to know who and where my food comes from, something I can't say for the bag of Organic Bunny Luv carrots I buy at the grocery store. I like knowing that my food was just picked that morning and it's the fruit of the labors of my neighbors.

And then there are weeks when my grocery money is shot and I just want a meal to put on the table and I throw the above guidelines out and just go to the grocery and find whatever $10 will buy me. In that case, I leave the organic purchases for another week, but I still stick to my #1 goal in food shopping: buying food without additives and preservatives. The thing about eating "real food" is that you can do it know matter what you're budget looks like. I love that.

So my advice, (if you're looking for some) is that if money isn't an issue, buy organic and local. If you have to stick to a tight budget, first make sure you are spending your money on "real food", first and foremost. Then figure out what your priorities are and splurge on the things that really matter to you and your family.

Hope that helps, and I'd love to hear your take on the issue. What do you buy and why?

Reminiscing About Ramen

FYI: if you are really dedicated to this label reading journey we are embarking upon together AND you have a soft spot for ramen noodles, you could have a serious problem on your hands.

Personally, I was born and raised on the stuff. My dad is from Hawaii, and growing up, he ate saimin (that’s what we call ramen in our family) on a daily basis, and he passed that tradition on to our family. The lunches I most vividly remember as a child were saimin with sliced Vienna sausages mixed in the noodles and half a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I know, I know. In some crowds nowadays that would be akin to child abuse. But, honestly, I loved it, and have such good memories of sitting around the kitchen table with my brothers, all of us slurping up the long noodles while the broth sprayed all over the place and made us giggle.

Unfortunately, I’m a big girl now and I’ve got a bit of a conscience about additives in my food so poring over the label on a bag of ramen makes me sick to my stomach, nostalgic, and sad all at the same time. I wish I could serve up a piping hot bowl of noodles to my kids and feel good about it but I just can’t . I mean, the list of offenders begins with msg and (about 30-words-I-cannot-pronounce later) ends with Maltodextrin. Very, very scary.

Now, the truth is that I am a healthy, fairly stable adult, so one could say that the constant diet of ramen as a kid must not have been too detrimental to my health. On the surface, that would seem to be true. But in hindsight, I dealt with being overweight for most of my childhood and teenage years. I’m not saying that we need to put our kids on diets. Far from it. But I do think that if weight is in issue in your family, that you need to take a good hard look at how much fresh food your kids are getting, and how many “ramen-type” foods they are consuming.

I’m coming clean here: when I visit my parents, I still really love it when my dad sets down a steaming hot bowl of saimin in front of me and hands me one of his Chinese soup spoons to ladle up the noodles and broth. And at the moment I do have a box of spicy saimin in my pantry that my dad bought for me the last time I went to visit.

So despite all my qualms with crappy food, I still enjoy saimin. Not every day, not every week, not even every month. Truthfully, I haven’t even opened the box my dad gave me yet and I got it back in June. I guess I just like knowing it’s there, a little remnant of my childhood preserved in my cupboard. One day I’d like to find a healthy version, one that uses fresh noodles and broth and all kinds of delicious veggies. Maybe I could start a new kind of tradition with my kids, but one that still hearkens back to my and my dad’s childhood days.

What about you? Do you have a favorite food of childhood that you wish came in a healthier version for you to feed your children?

Caution: Mai Just Found Her Soap Box

I got back from the grocery tonight and, frankly, I was pissed off. At one point I was ranting around the kitchen with a rolling pin in my hand, punctuating my anger by occasionally thrusting the pin in the air. My husband leaned against the counter, kind of chuckling, but kind of scared at the same time.

And this is what I was fired up about: crap in my food.

Okay, we know I’m a label-reading freak. I can’t not do it. But every once in a while, after I’ve read a few too many partially-hydrogenated oils or mono-diglycerides or any other crap that hides away in all our food, I just get fed up.

Funny enough, I’m not mad at the big-wig food companies that put these things in fig newtons and coffee creamer, and I’m not mad at the grocery stores who stock their shelves with all this fluff, all this non-food. These folks are only giving us what we want. We, the consumers, are the ones who allow them to do it. And until we stop buying food that contains these chemicals and tampered fats, there is no reason for the suits and stores to stop giving it to us.

I’m sorry to get all riled up, folks. Typically, I like to keep it light and airy. We’ve got enough guilt in life, with the laundry piles, overdue projects, bathrooms that haven’t been cleaned in weeks, emails that haven’t been replied to in months. I don’t want to add another thing to your list of things that you feel bad about. This isn’t about guilt. It’s about respect and love for yourself and your family.

I think about when my babies were born: these unblemished, soft, pure little bodies. And for the first year of their lives, we are so particular about their diets. We breast-feed or search around for the best formula that agrees with their fresh digestive systems. So much care goes into making sure they are properly fed. “But their growing so much then,” you say. “They need the extra attention to their diet. It’s different when you’re older.”

Folks, that is a lie. Yes, I’m past my growing years. In fact, when I went to the doctor last month, I had actually gotten shorter, and that really sucks. I always thought old people shrank, now suddenly I’m 32 and, by my own standards, considered an old person. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t care about what’s going into my body. No, I’m not growing, but I’m moving and thinking and interacting with people and making decisions, and in order to do all these things to the best of my ability, I have to feed myself with the same care that I fed my newborns. I’m not a trash can. I’m a human. And so are you. And it’s about time we start feeding ourselves with a bit more respect and care.

I’m putting out a challenge to all of you: for one week, read the labels of everything you’re putting into your mouth or the mouths of your family. Wonder why your kids are so hyper and out of control? You might be surprised what you find in their food. Feel like you’re tired all the time? Our bodies weren’t created to digest and sort through all the crap that we’re putting into them. Crap in our food slows us down and that’s all there is to it.

I’m putting this challenge out there simply to get you aware of what’s crossing the threshold of your lips. Don’t make this a diet thing. We’re not talking about calories and fat grams; we’re talking ingredients. However, I do find it interesting that the shorter (and easier to pronounce) the list of ingredients, chances are the less detrimental a food will be to your health and waistline.

Most importantly, I want to hear from you during this challenge. I want to hear what surprises you, disgusts you, and makes you happy. And I want this to be a guilt-free exercise. This isn’t about making you feel bad about your food; it’s about you feeling more respectful of your body.

My goal is that at the end of this challenge, you will look at that 15 item list of chemicals and other garbage on the back of a box of chicken nuggets and say, “My family and I are worth more than this”. And then, together, we can figure out how to create recipes or find products that feed you and your family better. Maybe it’s a lofty goal, but I think it’s worth a try.

Surviving the Sweets Fast: One Mother's Journey

Around the middle of last week, my seven-year-old son, Cade, was sitting at the kitchen table drawing, when suddenly he stopped and said, “Mama, could you just remind me when it’s Monday because that’s when I’m gonna start not eating treats for a whole week.”

I’m dead serious. That’s exactly what he told me. My first thought was that someone put him up to this. I knew he hadn’t gotten it from a t.v. show because our family isn’t watching television for all of 2010. And I know all his little friends well enough to be sure that they weren’t instigating this kind of behavior, but I was too curious so I did a little digging around.

“So, bud, why do you want to go without treats for the week? Is someone else doing it? Is that why you want to do it, too?” I asked nonchalantly.

He shook his head and casually continued drawing. “No, I just want to do it so I can be healthier.”

I stared at him with a look of utter confusion, then stammered out an unconvincing, “Okay.”

I mean, what 7-year-old prohibits himself from eating treats for no reason whatsoever! I guess mine does. But as I was walking away from the table where Cade sat, I felt really sorry for him. I started imagining this scenario where the rest of our family sat outside taking long tasty licks from our ice cream cones with big cheesy grins on our faces, while Cade sat, sad yet determined, in the corner eating a carrot stick.

I couldn’t let him journey this road alone so I turned around and said, “Hey, bud, would you like it if Mama gave up treats, too? How about I do it with you?”

His eyes lit up, “You’re gonna do it, too? Alright!”

He was so excited, and inside I knew it was the right thing to do. I felt like a good mama, taking on this hardship with my son. I’m sure for some of you out there, giving up sweets is no real sacrifice. Not me. I’ve got serious issues with sweets, and after I got over all the “Super Mama” euphoria, I started feeling really panicky inside. I started thinking about the “regulars” that I wouldn’t be able to eat: the dark chocolate covered pretzels waiting patiently in the pantry, the Ben and Jerry’s ice cream in the freezer, the leftover berry tart calling my name from the fridge…

Is it an addiction? Yes. My husband tries to convince me that it isn’t, but that’s only because he’s addicted, too. And the problem is, I can’t fail at this. My son is watching. I’m “Mama”, the one who’s always right, who always knows where to find his missing baseball glove, who knows what 12,456 + 6,314 is (mental math in the thousands always astounds him), who can make smiley-face oatmeal, and read really big words. I’ve got to do this.

Today is day four. So far, I’ve survived, but Tuesday night I had to make a big ole batch of granola because the bedtime munchies were gettin’ me down. That’s when I tend grab for a sweet treat, you know, the usual suspects: a bowl of ice cream, couple of cookies, or those darn chocolate covered pretzels dipped in peanut butter. Okay, my mind is wandering into enemy territory so I’ve got to stop. And I’ve got an uphill climb ahead of me: a bridal shower on Saturday and a dinner party on Sunday. Whoa. I better go make another batch of granola. Wish me luck.

The Delicious Simplicity (and Sexuality) of Fresh Sweet Corn

Corn? That’s all we’re having for dinner? These were my exact thoughts the first time I sat down to such a meal while visiting Shawn and his family one summer while we were dating. I’d never heard of such a thing. Honestly, at the table there was a bowl of mashed potatoes, one of green beans, and a huge plate piled high with at least a dozen ears of steaming hot, fresh sweet corn, and that was it. No meatloaf or steaks, none of the typical “main characters” that keep corn on the cob in a supporting role. No, she was the star of this meal. But as they say, “When in Rome…”, so I placed an ear on my plate as the dish passed before me, and with the first bite, I knew exactly why this was a standard summertime meal in Lancaster County: this corn was amazing, well deserving of it’s place as the centerpiece of any dinner table.

Let me first caution you before you invite over a houseful of guests and attempt to feed them any old corn you find at the grocery store, hoping to astound them with your brilliant simplicity. It won’t work. This corn has to be fresh, like “just picked that morning” fresh, not ears that were picked last week and then took an 8-hour ride in the back of a semi just to sit in that big plastic bin in the produce section of a superstore for a day or two before you finally rescue it and take it home to your family. That’s not gonna cut it. You gotta find yourself a farmer’s market or roadside stand and these days, even in the city, those aren’t hard to come by. With the first bite, you’ll taste the difference.

Since just about everyone out there knows how to shuck an ear of corn and put it in boiling water, there’s really no recipe for this week’s Manic Monday suggestion so I will leave you with a quote from one of my favorite writers, Garrison Keillor, in his book Leaving Home, because his thoughts on sweet corn pretty much say it all. I know, you’re really tempted to stop reading here, but don’t give into that thought. Take the extra 30 seconds and read this little bit because it will most definitely put a smile on your face and forever change the way you look at fresh sweet corn.

“Sweet corn was our family’s weakness. We were prepared to resist atheistic Communism, immoral Hollywood, hard liquor, gambling and dancing, smoking, fornication, but if Satan had come around with sweet corn, we at least would have listened to what he had to sell. We might not have bought it but we would’ve had him in and given him a cup of coffee. It was not amazing to learn in eighth-grade science that corn is sexual, each plant containing both genders, male tassel and female flower, propagating in our garden after dark. Sweet corn was so delicious, what could have produced it except sex? Sunday after church, when the pot roast was done and the potatoes were boiled and mashed and a pot of water was boiling—only then would Dad run out with a bushel basket and pick thirty ears of corn. We shucked it clean in five seconds per ear and popped it in the pot for a few minutes. A quick prayer, a little butter and salt, and that is as good as it gets. People have searched the world over for something better and didn’t find it because it’s not there. There’s nothing better, not even sex. People have wanted sex to be as good as sweet corn and have worked hard to improve it, and afterward they lay together in the dark, and say, 'That was so wonderful…But it wasn’t as good as fresh sweet corn.'"

Hope that brightens up your Manic Monday as much as it did mine!

Zucchini, How Do I Eat Thee? Let Me Count The Ways

In the nearly 11 years that we’ve been married, Shawn and I have attempted a backyard vegetable garden three times. Our first attempt took place in Florida and the fruit of our labors was a handful of green beans.

Garden number two went under construction in Spring 2009. Our daughter Lucy has for the past couple years told us that she wants to be a gardener when she grows up so we thought we’d encourage her desire by starting a small vegetable garden for her and her older brother in the backyard of our Virginia townhouse. So Shawn went to Home Depot, they picked out which seeds they wanted, and came home to turn my kitchen counter into a mini greenhouse for a couple of weeks. They tended their seedlings until the temperature outside was prime for planting, then made the fateful transition outdoors.

The plants survived about a week.

The soil was like cement and the fact that our backyard had a serious downward slope didn’t help. So when we decided to make another attempt at vegetable gardening this Spring at our home in Lancaster, PA, my hopes weren’t high. I figured if I got a handful of fresh cilantro and enough spinach for a side salad, I’d consider our garden a rousing success.

Well, Mother Nature had other things in mind. The combination of ridiculously fertile Lancaster-county soil and my husband’s late night studying of Reader’s Digest Illustrated Guide to Gardening and we have ourselves a VERY fruitful garden this year.

Besides already harvesting more peas and lettuce than an army of rabbits could ever hope to eat, on Saturday we found 3 mutant zucchini hidden underneath the jungle that is currently our garden, and we've got about 14 more monstrosities gaining strength and size with each passing day.

I love zucchini, but there is a limit to my affection, and I think 17 zucchini the size of my calves could be that limit. The bright side is that I do have an outrageously good zucchini bread recipe. The down side is I estimate that my impending zucchini could produce upwards of 500 loaves. I need some other options, so I turn to you, my good readers, to help.

What does a mere woman do with all these zucchini? I'm looking for your absolute favorite zucchini recipes here. And while I'll keep Guideline #2 from last Friday's post (I like my food real, nothing artificial), please bombard me with your best ideas. And whichever one I like the best will be spotlighted on this Friday's post!

Homemade Pie Crusts: My Arch-Enemy

My husband and I just don’t use a lot of profanity. Actually, let me clarify that statement by saying that my husband freakishly NEVER swears, but should a stubbed toe or frustrating electronic device come my way, I will occasionally scold with a choice 4-letter word. For the most part, I keep my obscenities to a minimum…unless I’m making a pie crust.

Perhaps you’ve never made a “from scratch” pie crust, or maybe you are abnormally talented and can mix, roll out, and line a pie pan in 40 seconds flat, all the while, whistling “Blue Skies” and doing ballet moves around your kitchen. Good for you. Really, I’m happy for you. (Honestly, I’d like to use one of those 4-letter words about now.)

Anyway, I come from a long line of Southern women who would never, under any circumstances whatsoever, sully their kitchen with a store bought pie crust. My mom learned to make her first pie crust when she was 5 years old. My five year old can just about make her own pb&j—times are different. But I still have that tradition, and pressure, hanging over me every time I try to make a pie crust.

Thankfully, I have come a long way. I made my very first pie crust shortly after the garlic episode (see Tuesday's post), when we lived in Florida. I’ve blocked out a lot of the details, but I know that I was making a double crust for an apple pie, I know I used profanity A LOT, I know there were tears, and I know that Shawn had to fish my dough out of the trash more than once.

After that fiasco, Shawn gave me a nugget of wisdom that I’ve held onto for these past 10 years of pastry-making: “Maile, your Mom has been making pies her entire life and you are just beginning. It will take practice, but you’ll get better.”

So if even the thought of pie-making completely stresses you out like it does me, relax. We’re just beginning. All those perfect piecrusts out there started somewhere, and probably were accompanied with their fair share of obscenities, too.

Tomorrow, I offer to you my limited wisdom on pie crust making and a simple, yet delicious, recipe for a summery fruit pie.

**A special note about yesterday's post: Many thanks to Jane who pointed out that I omitted pimentos from my list of ingredients. I was not trying to mislead you all into thinking that you can actually eat Pimento Cheese without adding the pimentos so please check out the changes to yesterday's post. Thanks again, Jane!

It All Began with a Clove of Garlic

One day, shortly after Shawn and I got married, I stumbled upon a recipe for something (and for the life of me I cannot remember what) that I wanted to cook, but one of the ingredients was two garlic cloves. Keep in mind, I was 21 years old, and the extent of cooking for myself up until this point was ripping open a Kellogg’s Rice Krispie Treat for breakfast before walking out of my dorm for American Lit.

Of course, I’d heard of garlic before, but it was always garlic powder or dried minced garlic. And, should this story be taking place right now, I would have just hopped onto the internet, looked it up, and gotten my answer. But this was ten years ago, when the internet was strictly dial-up, and mostly used for email. So with much trepidation, I headed to my local Food Lion in search of this mysterious “garlic clove”.

I entered through the sliding glass doors of the store and immediately the small produce section of the store welcomed me. Thankfully, Food Lion’s tend to be rather straight-forward in their produce offerings or this search could have been a very, very long process, because I literally had to read the signs for every product I did not immediately recognize: radish, parsnip, fennel, shallot…garlic.

There it sat: a white, lumpy ball, covered in papery skin, reminiscent of an onion, and rather unimpressive. So this was a clove of garlic…or was it? I picked it up and stared at it. The recipe had said “2 garlic cloves”. I suppose womanly intuition told me that two of these lopsided bulbs seemed like a lot to go into the dish I wanted to make. So I headed in search of help, which came in the form of a middle-aged cashier, staring at me through thick glasses and bushy brown hair.

“Hi," I said, rather sheepishly. "I was just wondering. Do you know if this whole thing is a garlic clove?” She stared at me without blinking. I wondered if she even heard me. Slowly, her gaze shifted to the garlic in my hand and then she began shaking her head from side to side. In a thick southern drawl she replied, “I have no idea.” There we stood, two semi-competent women, staring wide-eyed and confused at a small lumpy nugget nestled in my palm.

I bought the garlic, went home, and somehow deduced that what I needed for my recipe was indeed just two of the small pods that could be pulled apart from the garlic head. And the wonderful flavor that came from those two little culinary diamonds astounded me and launched me into a whole new realm of cooking.

Why am I sharing this story? Because I’ve come a long way since that Food Lion in Florida, but I still have a lot to learn. So let’s learn together. No question is off limits here. If there is something you don’t understand, please ask and don’t be embarrassed—we all have to start somewhere, and I started with a garlic clove. Where did you begin?

And tomorrow, I bring you a tribute recipe of an old Southern favorite that finally won me over.