June, 2011
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this shiz is bananas!
A few weeks ago, I woke up and realized, with full clarity, that something needed to be done about my physical fitness. Now, let me say something before the eyes begin to roll, and you start scrolling to something else. I’m not the size of a house. BUT … I have been quite a bit smaller in earlier years. Like, let’s say, just for giggles, 3 dress sizes. And now that I’m in my 30’s, it’s a little harder to get back on track and stay there.
In my moment of realization, I had to come to terms with the fact that sitting at a desk all day, eating lots of food (because I love it and it’s all SOOOO good) and not really exercising on a consistent basis is an equation that not uncommonly equals weight gain. This meant two things that were as appealing to me as eating ketchup. I’d have to watch the portion sizes of what I ate, and I’d have to make a conscious effort to begin and maintain a fitness regime.
Here’s the thing about me. I will be dead serious about something for about, oh, let’s say, two weeks. And then, I get really serious about something else (I’m hoping that’s not the case with this blog, which I am finding more and more ridiculously addictive by the day).
So on this day of infamy a few weeks ago, I opened up my bottom drawer (that which houses all my ratty workout clothing) and dug around for some gear. I half-heartedly pulled it on, tied my hair back (this was pre-cutting-it-so-short-I-can’t-pull-it-back and … now it’s 99 degrees outside not taking into consideration the oppressive humidity and the whole not-being-able-to-pull-it-back thing is turning out to be a little inconvenient … but that’s another ramble) and jumped on the ancient stationary bicycle in our living room. I may be mistaken, but I think that said bicycle (now relegated to the garage due to one of the joints cracking after a week of intense riding) could have qualified as an antique. When Ole Orange broke (I just named him now, for his fabulous ’70s orange style), I could have used it as the perfect excuse to just give up on the maintenance of the workout program. I mean, wasn’t it a message that he broke?
But then I realized that not working out meant actually sticking to my 1200 calorie-a-day diet plan, which is pretty hard. With work outs, I usually earned myself a couple hundred more calories, and that made all the difference. Plus, did I want to whine all the time about how crappy I felt … or did I want to actively do something to change it?
I picked actively change.
I got my iPod out. I found my arm band. I talked myself up about how great a jog would feel after all this time. But ~ I kid you not ~ the iPod was frozen. Sure, the jog would be great. But without any musical motivation, I was starting to feel really hesitant. I looked around the living room, and spied the small blue CD case that housed my worst fitness nightmare. I pulled it from its dusty shelf.
Shaun T.’s Insanity Work Out.
Eight weeks of pure cardio h*ll in the comfort of your own living room.
This shiz … it’s bananas.
The workouts aren’t long (in the first half at least … I’ve never gotten through weeks 5-9) but they are brutal. And there’s always Shaun T, smiling and jogging, and talking about imagining holding potato chips between your fingers (this is to ‘relax’ your hands). The man is bananas.
I have conversations with Shaun T. during the 37 – 41 minutes of torture I endure six days a week. He asks the camera questions, and I think it’s for all of us at home cursing his very existance to respond in indignation (that is, when you’ve been doing the program long enough to be able to breath). Let me tell you, when Shaun T. laughingly says during the warm up stretch that he’s nervous about the workout to come … you KNOW there’s a problem.
I will say that I have been using the word bananas much more frequently, and not in reference to yellow fruit. The entire program is bananas. So far, Shaun T. has only categorized the Pure Cardio as bananas (he proclaims this during the miniscule break you get after fifteen straight minutes of cardio intensity), but I apply it to all the workouts.
However … despite the pain and frustration … the best part of the Insanity workouts are the results. Because as hard as it is, and as much as I hate Shaun T. every morning when I flip on the DVD player, I love him when the workout ends. Yeah, sure, I’m a hot sweaty mess. But even in the few short weeks I’ve been rocking out with the Insanity peeps, I’ve lost weight, I feel stronger, and I have way more energy. Having results like that make it worth doing workouts that even the instructor claim are … you know it … bananas!
I’m at the start of Week 4 (next week is my reprieve, aka ‘rest week’ ~ hallelujah!). I’m nervous about what’s to come. But I’m in it now ~ so keep your fingers crossed for me that I survive!
what to do with a wiggling fish
Fresh Trout with Caper Sauce ~
So, I can’t wait to figure out how to upload photos, because I have some great ones of the dinner I made tonight. (And by “I,” I mean John took some great photos. Once upon a time, I fancied myself a photographer. After lunch and a long afternoon at a country cottage in England, my parents found themselves in possession of many rolls of film of mediocre pictures of a flower garden. You live and you learn, right?)
Here’s how this whole thing went down. Our neighbors gifted to John and myself some fresh trout. If there’s something that a green cook such as myself finds intimidating, it’s fresh trout. Just an FYI. I mean, the fish was wiggling a little in the bag when John deposited it in the sink (it probably wasn’t, but I’m still convinced the little guy was fighting a lost battle). I tip-toed over, glancing over the edge, afraid that the little fishy eye would see me, and I would be it’s last searing image before closing forever.
I procrastinated. I wrung my hands. I googled ‘gutting fish.’ I realized that this whole fish thing was going to be a bigger undertaking than I felt I was willing to make. I picked up Delia Smith (she’s very comforting in her no-nonsense style) and paged through. Did Delia teach a person how to gut a fish? Cook a trout?
Of course she did.
I picked her caper sauce, because it had the least amount of ingredients, and because John’s mother gave us jars and jars of capers, and I was pretty sure it would take us a long time to use them all. I diligently went about whisking the olive oil and juice of a lemon (truth be told, I used lemon juice out of a bottle ~ I soothed my ego by reminding myself that all the greats used substitutions at some point … right?). I conveniently forgot about the minced garlic (we didn’t have it). I dried and chopped the capers. I ground the salt and pepper. And as Delia instructed, I set the whole shebang aside to allow the flavors to develop.
This meant that now, I had to confront the fish in my sink.
Delia, in her comfortingly direct way, let her readers (me) know in no uncertain terms that the fishmonger should at least gut your fish for you. As I tentatively reached into the plastic bag and withdrew the first of two trout, I was relieved to find the thin slit down its belly. Imagine my relief at not having to clean out fish guts. Immense. My confidence building, I rinsed both fish off, inside and out, and then lay them on the cutting board. The heads would have to go.
And … I began to procrastinate again. I imagined the crunching feel of pressing the knife through the delicate bones at the base of the fish’s heads. I believe that I visibly shuddered. I checked my caper sauce. Yup. Still there.
In the end, John had to decapitate the fish. And in the end, the fish was a triumph. I’ll let you in on my secret. Pick the quickest cooking method, with the least amount of ingredients. In my experience, simple usually trumps.
What I did:
Ingredients:
2 fresh trout, gutted (and without heads, but with tails and skin still intact)
2 Tbsp butter
Salt & pepper (to taste)
For Delia’s sauce (my style):
4 tbsp capers
4 tbsp olive oil
juice of one lemon (or, a nice dollop of lemon juice out of a bottle)
garlic powder
salt & pepper to taste
Instructions:
1. Combine olive oil, lemon juice and a sprinkle of garlic powder. Whisk with a fork until combined.
2. Pat capers dry. Coarsely chop them (or pop them in the food processor and swirl them around a bit)
3. Combine chopped capers with olive oil and lemon. Add salt & pepper to taste.
4. Put aside.
For the fish:
1. Wash it out. Pat it dry.
2. Melt butter in large saucepan on medium to medium-high heat. Add salt & pepper to taste.
3. Cook fish in butter for approximately 2-4 minutes per side (the flesh will turn white ~ and it happens fast, so make sure you’re paying attention!).
I know. Amazingly simple. But a triumph, Mrs. Cratchit!
We had a nice Caprese salad ( I was craving corn, but if you’d seen John’s face at the mention of fresh tomatoes and mozzarella, you’d have made a Caprese, too) and pull-apart bread. That, my friends, is a recipe for another day.
(I would like to note that the knives are not set properly in this picture and it drives me nuts, but I can’t change it, so, it is what it is. But technically, their blades should face the other way).
I’ll say this ~ being confronted with a cooking challenge definitely intimidates. But making something edible feels incredible. So cheers to our neighbors, who helped me confront cooking fresh fish. I DID IT! Is there anything you’ve recently conquered in the kitchen? Tell me about it!
there’s no place like home
This afternoon, when we finally pulled into the driveway of our humble abode, I had home on my mind. I’ve lived in the greater Philadelphia area for nearly seven years, and for most of that time, I’ve been plotting to get out. There have been brief glimmers when I felt I’d broken free … just to be yanked back, like the huge hooked canes used to pull performers from the stage during the vaudeville era.
We hit the road early on Friday, glad of the practically perfect weather and looking forward to the road trip and some fun along the way. We were on our way to Massachusetts (a state neither of us had visited before) for a wedding. But first, we were stopping in South Norwalk, Connecticut to pick up my brother and his lady love, thus breaking up the time on the road, as well as getting some Q.T. with my little brother (who, because of his insane social life and the fact that we live in different cities, I rarely see nowadays).
We flipped on the radio as we drove down the PA turnpike with the windows rolled down. Preston & Steve’s morning show was on (something I go through phases of enjoying) and they were discussing the counties around Philadelphia. Most specifically, how much people from Delaware County (Delco to the locals) loved being from Delco. It was an interesting conversation, as people from Montgomery County and Bucks County and Philadelphia County were also dissected in the comfortable way of morning talk shows. People with thick accents called in to espouse the virtues (or evils) of particular places. I began to realize that not only did I know where all these places were, but I also understood the basic psychology of the people who called each locale their home. It got John and I discussing (for possibly the millionth time) where we lived, and where we wanted to end up. I confessed to him that despite fighting vehemently to maintain my disdain for Philly, I was beginning to love where we lived. We will hit two years of cohabitation in August, and we have a great little apartment, surrounded by leafy green trees, with neighbors out of a 1950’s sitcom. We know the back roads ~ we have a sushi place, and a football place. We are beginning to branch out and learn about the surrounding area. I sighed with resignation. “I don’t really want to move anywhere right now.”
I could see a smile playing at the corners of John’s mouth. (I believe, to a certain extent, that opposites attract, and I think there are more things that John and I disagree about than the other way around). “So you like Philly now?”
“I didn’t say that!” I laughed, and swatted his arm. John loves Philly. “And I’m not ready to shout it from rooftops either. I’m just saying, I like where we live. I don’t want to move. We’re … settled right now. It’s a nice feeling.”
“Hmm.” He glanced at me, still fighting a smile. I knew this revelation made him happy. We’ve spent quite a bit of time butting heads about where to put down roots. As John Lennon sang, life IS what happens when you are busy making other plans. As we’d quibbled, and gone back and forth (Colorado, Montana, Wyoming, Pittsburgh), little did I know we were putting down roots right where we were. And … I liked it.
This in and of itself is enough to get one thinking about home. But someone, it seemed, was sending me lots of messages, just to make sure I didn’t miss the point. As the homily began during our friend’s wedding mass on Saturday afternoon, the priest looked directly at the groom, and asked “Where do you live?” The groom’s facial expression was priceless ~ a sort of physical representation of “Where did that come from?/Am I supposed to answer you?/ What exactly is the response you’re looking for?” An undertone of laughter passed through the crowd. We were all thinking exactly what the groom’s face had expressed. Essentially, after quite a long and circuitous route, the answer was, home is where you choose it to be, and with whom you choose to share it. “Ah ha!” you’re thinking. “This seems exactly like something a priest would pontificate on during a marriage ceremony.” I would have to agree. But it also poked at my brain ~ stirred up all the thoughts of the day before, pushing me to articulate that which I understood, but hadn’t yet distilled into words.
On Sunday, after depositing my brother and his lady in South Norwalk to enjoy an afternoon at the beach and some grub with friends, John and I were alone again, finishing up the last leg of our journey. He leaned his head back as we steered onto 95 and said, “It’s not that I don’t like spending time with your family, ” (he often prefaces things this way ~ I believe it’s to nip any argument or injury I might find in the bud), “but I was really looking forward to it just being you and I in the car.” I knew what he meant. It had been an incredible weekend. The wedding reception was one of the best I’ve ever been to ~ as Mary Poppins would say matter-of-factly, practically perfect in every way. I’d seen friends from high school whom I hadn’t seen in years ~ that alone gave me a sense of home. We’d eaten scrumptious food (the groom is a chef, and the food was divine), had lovely cocktails, and enjoyed excellent company. All good, all around. But I was tired now, and the comfort of knowing that we could just be us two, sitting together in silence, felt wonderful.
I was also looking forward to getting home ~ getting back to the cool quiet of our little nest, and relaxing in silence on our big comfy couch. I thought of how nice it always felt to come over the crest of the hill, and see the little sign at the end of our driveway, welcoming us home. To turn into the red gravel drive, and creep slowly along as the dogs frenetically zoomed this way and that, barking and jumping, as the stones crunched under the tires, and finally pull into our little nook, with the leaves fluttering in the breeze, and the flowers waving hello in all their colorful glory.
I knew that it wasn’t about Philadelphia. (Although to be fair, our country was founded here, and that makes it a pretty cool place ~ even without all its other amenities). It was about finding balance, and consistency and living in it day after day. I tried to remember the last time I’d lived in one place for two years, or worked for the same company, or been with the same man. All at the same time? Never. My childhood was defined by the moves my family made, every few years, when my dad was offered a better job, in a different place. Back then, home was where my family was ~ home was dinner every night with everyone sitting around the table. Home wasn’t a location.
So…where am I from? I’m not sure anymore. Am I from Pittsburgh, where I was born? Am I from Wyomissing, where I graduated high school? Am I from Philadelphia now, after living here for longer than anywhere else? Maybe I’m from all those places. I certainly know that I have a deep love for Pittsburgh and Wyomissing. And I’m beginning to realize that I have love for Philly, too. Maybe a little bit dysfunctional ~ considering I try every day to remember I don’t like it here! (Cue angry child foot stomp). But love nonetheless. Do I even need to define where I’m from to know where I’m going?
So there I sat, the wind swirling through the car, the jam sounds of Dave Matthews providing a mellow soundtrak to our return. And I realized that I DID feel settled. I did feel happy. And more importantly, I felt like I was coming home.
So here’s what I believe. I believe that home is where I live with John. Home is our kitchen, and our garden, and each other. Home is neighbors to share dinner with, and dogs barking hello at the end of a long work day. Home is the barista at Starbucks smiling in recognition when I walk through the door. It’s the clerk at Acme and the bank teller that I always wait for (because she has the best big earrings EVER). Home is routine mixed in with adventure. It’s learning to cook curry (I’ve only done it twice, and it’s pretty basic, but YUM YUM), and making subtle changes in home decor. It’s weekly dinner with friends (WeHANGSday, named by Mr. Josh Levin) and free concerts in the park. Home is falling asleep to the sounds of nature, and the gentle oscillation of the fan, with your best friend beside you.
And there’s no place like home.
embarking on a journey
Having now navigated the unfamiliar waters of setting up and hosting a website of my very own, I am finally sitting down (in my pajamas and with a bowl of cheerios) to write my very first post.
Yesterday, the man and I celebrated three years together. This, for me, is a small miracle. Three years that went by in a flash ~ three years with very little drama. Three years of hanging out everyday with my very best friend. It felt good to celebrate. I was trying very hard to get this post up yesterday ~ to commemorate our three years with starting a new venture. And I wouldn’t be venturing down this road of ‘blog-dom’ were it not for him. So for that, I owe him a big thank you!
John (the man) came home last week from five days away talking talking talking about camping and fishing, and getting back into nature. He has been talking this way a lot recently, so I figured it was fairly inevitable that at some point, we would have to actually do the camping and the fishing. But no, he assured me. He’d spoken to his cousin, who was feeling this same itch to get back into country life. I imagine I looked stunned (I certainly felt taken aback ~ he didn’t want to do these things with ME?) Granted, I am a thoroughly suburban girl. I don’t like bugs. I DO like running water… etc, etc, you get the point. I asked, slightly curious as to know his thoughts on the matter, “What am I supposed to do while you are camping and fishing all the time?” (Time out for a minute: Remember the three years we celebrated? Well, we’ve spent those three years doing pretty much everything together. Our ‘honeymoon’ period may have lasted longer than most … I’m not sure, as I’ve never reached three years with anyone before … but the point is, what he does, I do. What I do, he does. This new concept raised red flags everywhere for me).
He looked at me placidly, smiled, and said, “Do you want to go camping and fishing all the time?”
“Well, no, not particularly.” I felt my grumpy face coming on.
“So, get a hobby. Find something to do while I’m fishing and camping.”
What?!?! Did the love of my life, the man I spend all my time with, just imply in a round about way that I have no hobbies? My grumpy face was in full effect.
“Babe,” He started. “You’ve been doing all this cooking recently, and we’ve been talking about taking adventures on the weekends. Why don’t you start a website ~ blog about how you’ve been learning to cook and experimenting with things. Blog about how we’ve been trying to eat healthier and get into better shape ~ you’re a great writer and I think it’s a good idea.”
Grumpy face began to dissipate. I wasn’t going to let him off the hook that easily, so I didn’t respond right away (I believe I harrumphed and headed back into the kitchen to check on dinner). But the seed had been planted. It marinated in my brain over the following long weekend, as we explored a new state park in our area (“It has 27 holes of frisbee golf!” John marvelled), barbecued with friends, and went to the races for a picnic on Memorial Day proper (we won one race with a payout of $4.60, lost more, and John learned that there’s a reason I don’t gamble).
I spent some time trying to figure out how one actually goes about setting up a website. I scribbled ideas on notepads and post-its (I <3 post its). I drafted posts in my head as I plodded through the technical rote of this endeavor. And now, here I am, writing into space, wondering if one day, this post will ever be read. I read (in one of the many guides to starting a blog that I googled over the past few days) that the success of a blog is diligence in writing on it. That you have to see if you have the makings of a blogger before your blog can be successful.
So … here I go. Let’s see what I’m made of! And if, for some reason, you visit this site early on, in its baby phase, let me assure you that I’m working to learn how to edit and add content and upload photos and create a fun place to read, explore and experiment. Keep your fingers crossed! It could start out as a bumpy ride.
D5 Creation