Green: Eat Like You Mean It!

Sheila Says...

...what's the deal with people and food, anyway? This question has been on my mind, as I just came back from my annual trek "up north," where I helped feed 22 arts campers and an assortment of teachers, artists, and family members. After that, I fed a good 120 Misdummer festival-goers over the weekend. A lot of time on my feet, a lot of work, a lot of fun.

The thing is, I like feeding people. And people, in general, like to eat. When I'm in charge of the kitchen, the food is fresh-made from scratch, no molecular structures have been damaged by microwaves, and, whenever possible, the ingredients are organic and/or free-range. All well and good, if you're of the same mind regarding health, food, and the well-being of the planet (unlike those chemical company interests actually lobbying against organic farming!?!?!!!)

But that's not all there is to the story of food and people. Confession:  I do happen to be a good cook. I'd be false if I didn't recognize this fact. After all, people wouldn't pay me to cook for them if I produced dross.  Confession:  I have no culinary training whatsoever.  Confession:  My food was good even when I didn't use organic ingredients purchased from local farmers or from my food co-op.  Observed truth:  Not everyone gives a rat's arse about organic, and not everyone who loves to cook and and makes people happy with their food cooks fresh and from scratch.

What's the point? Simply, that there is a common link between the "lesser" food made from non-organic ingredients that still makes people sated and happy, and the kind of food I like to make from "quality" ingredients that are raised in accordance with my eco-principles. That link?  Love. Good, old-fashioned love.

Now I'm in no way going to turn back from my organic eco-path. I believe with every ounce of my being that producing organic food is truly the only option if we are to fully care for ourselves and the planet. I know that a fresh, organic vegetable is much, MUCH tastier and better for everyone than a package of processed whatever. But I also want to acknowledge that perhaps the most important ingredient in a well-made meal is the care taken in preparing that meal.

I have friends that make and eat food that would almost never pass my lips, dietary restrictions aside. Yet, the people they feed with that food are appreciative, satisfied and loved in the process. I suppose one could say that some people have "less refined" palates, or aren't able to or interested in making finer distinctions and standards. Many points could certainly made against the kind of fare that has plumped up generations of Americans, and helped increase the rates of diabetes and heart disease. From a national health standard, to be sure, I can't understand why chemical preservatives and high fructose corn syrup and food colorings and the like are even allowed in the food source stream. But that's not my point of concern today.

What I want to say is that anything prepared and offered with true love and care is a gift, and can be a gift that nourishes, regardless. People have often marveled at the food I make, and have come back to me feeling like they have "failed."  Besides the fact that no experiment or exploration in learning to do something can truly be a failure, I have concluded that there is only one reason why my food is perceived, often, as being "better" than others' food...

I love the food, pure and simple. I love the carrots and the cows, regardless of what I partake in my personal diet. I love peeling and grating and saucing. I love the gardens and pastures that produce my ingredients, and the farmers who tend the fields. I know and appreciate the hard labor that brings a single tomato from garden seedling to the bin at my local natural foods co-op. When I cook for others, I cook as a way to love them, even if I don't know them. Food--and cooking--is a holy thing to me. Preparing a meal, whether for my immediate family or for 200 strangers, becomes a spiritual, meditative task that enlightens and uplifts me.

My grandmother was the matriarch of our family, who made every holiday meal. It was simple fare:  Roasted meat, potatoes of some sort, another vegetable, lots of pies and bars and other sweet treats. She had no culinary training either. But her Thanksgiving was ALWAYS the best, her pies the flakiest and sweetest, her beet pickles the finest. Grandma loved her family, and it showed in the wholesome meals she provided us. Yes, the beef she prepared came from the cows we all helped raise in free-ranging pastures. Her garden vegetables were organic, because who would pay for chemical fertilizers when all the aged cow-poo was available to nourish the soil? Organic was normal when I was a child, not an ethical principle.

Even so, what differentiated Grandma's cooking was Grandma herself. I like to think, when I'm paring potatoes and glazing a roast, that I'm in some small measure able to channel just a bit of Grandma Elsye into the food I make. In this way, I pass on something good and beautiful from my past into every meal I make, and hope that it fortifies everyone I serve in some small part.

Now I don't say these things in any way to glorify myself or the food I make. Rather, I want to take the pressure off of those cooks who don't know where to begin in the kitchen, who feel overwhelmed and inadequate. I know you're out there, because you're constantly asking me for kitchen advice! The next time you have to make a meal, realize that you don't actually HAVE to make a meal. There are lots of pre-fab and made-to-order options out there. but if you really want to cook, first choose to make a meal (believe me, we have lots of leftover nights and "make do" nights and "Thank goodness there's Annie's organic mac-n-cheese nights here in this family!).

Once you're free from obligation and are cooking because who have chosen to do so, think of who's eating at your table. Select a simple menu that won't stress you in the making. Once you've got your ingredients in hand, take a minute to think of where it all comes from; thank the gardens and the gardeners, the cattle and the farm-hands who herd them, etc. Start cooking. Be daring in your use of herbs and spices...why not add a little flair to your flavor? But mostly, think about the people who will sit down and enjoy this meal with you. Know that, in preparing their supper, you're truly giving of yourself. Honor yourself as you acknowledge them.

Then, come together around the table and enjoy the eating. That's really all there is to it...a little paying attention, a little acknowledgement, a little freedom, a lot of love. And there you have it:  A good meal!

--Sheila

Sheila's Road to Health, or How I Ate My Way to Wellness

I love food, everything about food:  I love chopping vegetables, saucing a plate, de-glazing a pan, crushing garlic, chiffonading the basil. I love playing with seasonings and spices, exploring new flavor combinations. And yes, I love to eat. Food is nigh unto sacramental; it nourishes, elevates, satisfies and, if it's really, really good, transcends.

It has always been so for me, even as a child. Of course, I ate differently then. Being of sturdy Midwestern stock, ours was a meat-&-potato diet. What made it special, though, was that we grew our own potatoes, and relatives raised the stock. The food chain wasn't just a lesson in science class. Living in a small rural community, huge vegetable gardens were the norm, not the exception. Our garden took up roughly 1/3 of an acre out behind our house. I spent many an hour tilling, hoeing, planting, weeding, bug-picking, harvesting, and then preparing the bounty for winter storage. We kept the potatoes in the cool basement, froze the corn and peas, canned the beets and the beans. Every end-of-summer saw a plethora of shucking and shelling and de-kerneling.  When they were in season in the stores, we'd buy up peaches and such and can those too. In the cold Minnesota months, we purchased apples and fresh raw carrots and salad greens, but mostly relied upon what we had put up in the freezer or the root cellar.

From my grandparents' and aunt and uncle's farms came chicken and pork and beef. All the animals were free-range and hand-fed and yes, family-slaughtered. All the relatives came to help with the larger animals, though my aunt took care of the chickens on her own. Once the deed was done, the soon-to-be pork and beef were sent to the local butcher and divided up as per each family unit had ordered. Every one had a drop-freeze in those days to accomodate their side of beef and pork for the season.

Meals were simple, usually some form of meat protein cooked plainly, served up with steamed or baked or mashed potatoes, bread and butter, and a side of vegetables. In summer, as the gardens came to fruit, lots of fresh radishes and carrots and peas and beans and lettuce were eaten right out of the ground. Though the food was plain, it satisfied, all the more so because we all had a hand in getting it to the table. The food chain wasn't a concept, it was part of farm and rural life. And organic wasn't a national craze--it was the way of things on the family farm.

Now I'm a strict vegetarian, I consume no wheat products, and eat predominantly only goat and sheep cheeses and yogurts. Butter from grass-fed cows doesn't aggravate my system, but most other cow-dairy does, so I consume it only rarely and then in tiny amounts. I still love potatoes, but rarely serve them without at least some garlic, parsley and olive oil. In fact, the butter of my youth has been almost completely replaced with organic olive oil.

Why the change? As is the case for many people, I changed my diet according to the proddings of necessity. Now I had been vegetarian for long stretches in my youth, mostly out of budding philosophical commitments. One such epoch ended when my first son, now almost 21, developed a daunting set of food sensitivies. He could eat meat and rice and potatoes and simple vegetables, and so I starting eating flesh again upon occasion. (Even so, I have always tended toward vegetables as the mainstay of my personal diet.)

By the time I reached the ripe old age of 35, into my second marriage and having by then four children, I found myself to be too creaky, overweight, and not the happiest person ever. Even though I maintained a fairly active lifestyle that included brisk walks, yoga, and swimming, my weight kept creeping up and I never felt like my body was truly processing what I was putting into it. Never mind that a few too many "extras" had also been creeping in, things like late-night potato chips and (organic) cola, ice cream, and even the ocassional chili cheese dog. Such treats had never before impacted my health or my weight; I could pretty much eat whatever I wanted, as long as my "core" diet was sound.

Well, such is the myopia of youth. I don't think it had ever dawned on me that I would age, and that said aging would cause my body to function differently, that my very metabolic functions would shift. I was always trim and fit, even after the first three children were born. Of course, they all arrived on the scene before I was 30. By 35, my body was different, and I hadn't been paying attention. But life went on until, lo and behold, after a few very stressful personal years that included fibromyalgia symptoms and two miscarriages, I found myself pregnant again. Baby #5 arrived days before my 41st birthday.

Fortunately, during that pregnancy, I had already begun making necessary changes to support my own wellness. I paid attention to portion sizes, cut out late night snacking, and (mostly!) eliminated non-whole-grains from my diet. I began to notice then that wheat and dairy were making me feel a little funky, but I wasn't entirely certain if it was a pregnancy-induced phenomena or something more long-term.

Once Baby #5 arrived on the scene and began her newborn nursing odyssey, it became clear very quickly that Baby didn't like it when I ate wheat or dairy. Out they went. By the age of six months, wheat and dairy had no ill effects on her. But I discovered that they still made me feel horrible. Even so, I didn't always deny myself the pleasures of parmesan crostini! I hadn't quite managed to integrate the messages my body was giving me, the sometimes fatiguing reality of being 41 and having five children, and the emotional eating patterns I had established.

When Baby #5 was almost two years old, I fell--hard--while ice skating. I ended up with nasty contusions and a third degree concussion, the aftermath of which plagued me for another year-and-a-half. Within days of the accident, I started breaking out in severe hives whenever wheat passed my lips. Most cow dairy made me queasy, and flesh-products made my gall bladder hurt. What was happening to me? Was I just getting old? Was my body betraying me? Had my head injury changed things forever?

Once I was recovered enough to be able to drive again, to resume most of my day-to-day tasks and responsibilities, I rather woke up to my own reality. Here I was, 41 with five children, one a nursing baby, and I was miserable in myself. I was overweight, though, fortunately, not dangerously so. I was still snacking too much. The demands of my life were many and rigorous, and I felt like I was failing, like I wasn't my "Self" anymore.

I made a vow then and there to reclaim my health, my well-being, and my own Self. I ramped up my exercise regimen, adding low-impact jogging and, later, ski-walking to my 5-day-a-week plan. I got serious about portion control. I eliminated first wheat and flesh, then experimented with dairy. I discovered that a little grass-fed-cow butter was OK once in a while, and goat and sheep products were fine. So I stuck with my discoveries (OK, I'll confess:  If I make a triple-chocolate ganache tarte with rose cream topping for some special event, I'm going to have a bite, as long as the crust is wheat-free!) and, most importantly, began keenly listening to my body.

Today, I maintain a healthy body weight and an active life that includes not only doing what needs doing for six children (I adopted a teenager a year ago; now my kids are, respectively age 21, 19, 18, 16, 10 & 4!), but also regular ski-walking, swimming, yoga, low-impact calisthenics and isometrics, and bicycling. I eat only as much as my body needs and no more. I prepare food that is, first, pesticide-free and more vibrantly-flavored and nutrient-rich to begin with and, second, seasoned and paired to bring out the absolute best in each bite. When I eat, I eat with thanksgiving for the forces that brought that potato or leek or mango or melon into being. I enjoy the texture and flavor of every morsel that passes my lips. I appreciate the ways that my food nurtures my body, and contributes to my overall well-being.

So back to that idea of food being sacramental:  The concept of something being "sacred" is fundamentally about two things:  1) Being set aside for special purpose and 2) Being in right relationship. The biggest changes I ever made to my diet and lifestyle were predicated upon acknowledging that I had, somehow, lost a send of my own wholeness/holiness along the way. I wasn't treating my Self--my body or my spirit--as though I mattered. I ate too often to make up for things I felt lacking in my life.

Once I reclaimed myself as worthy of due consideration, I related differently to my body, to its requirements, and to that which impacted it. Food once again became a simple pleasure with profound relational implications. I began to eat as though I gave a damn about the outcome of my choices! I learned to listen to my body, to love it for all it has endured and created, for what it tells me when I need to make adjustments. I began to treat my body as a sweet and holy thing, and that includes the food which which I sustain my physical being. By association, then, to this process, food has become not only the sweetest of daily pleasures, but a sacred, sacred portion of my life.

Cooking, also, has therefore become a holy act for me. When I cook for others, I am placing myself in relation to them. When I prepare a meal, whether for my own family or for someone's wedding extravaganza, I meditate upon the people who will consume the meal, whose bodies and spirits and community will be nurtured with the food I prepare. And so I am careful to cook only with love and respect, so that, in doing so, I become part of that community in just the right way, even if I never again see the people who ordered my food in the first place. It might be "just food," but, to me, it is profoundly, sacredly, important.