RAW IS HELL

Unemployment is the new black.
Really, everyone is wearing it.
Okay, maybe not everyone, but there are many of us.
There are obvious disadvantages to not having a paycheck, but being unemployed has its benefits; like having the time to recognize what really constitutes a priority.
I have always known that having two new cars in the driveway was of little importance (precisely why hubby and I can't seem to let go of a beloved vehicle with "vintage" roll-down windows). But I must admit, until recently, I gave little priority to the subject of health. I think I somehow took for granted that I would always feel well (save for the common ailments), and always feel like, well... me.
But as my forties approached, I hardly recognized the person staring back at me in the mirror.
For almost an entire year, I have been battling some unexplained dizziness (having nothing to do with my semi-processed blonde hair). Countless physicians have turned me away with few answers and loads of advice (enough to make anyone who isn't already dizzy, dizzy). In fact, my most recent trip to a well respected ENT had me understanding why so many of us turn to the ePages of the web to embark on that tricky, and often dangerous path of self-diagnosis. My visit was short and after explaining my symptoms, the ENT scheduled me for a two-hour exam and handed me a mountain of paperwork to read through when I returned home. In a nutshell it explained that I was required to fast before the exam, refrain from drinking alcohol or using any type of stimulants, anti-depressants or pain medication. The test would require the doctor to squirt warm and cold liquids in both of my ears, at which point, I would be strapped to a motion table and rotated in several positions--including upside down--to determine possible causes for dizziness.
Need I say more?

And so, I decided to embark on a more practical path of self-evaluation and search the web for remedies that if not helpful, would not be harmful to my health.
One thing you should know about me is that I am a voracious reader, to a fault. When a topic interests me, I saturate my brain (and ultimately only my short-term memory because I suffer from CRS) with as much information as it will hold on said subject.
As a black-belt food lover and seasoned dieter, if I have learned anything of importance over the years, it's that what we put in our bodies plays a major role in how we feel.
Simple concept, right?
To some perhaps, but not to this whitebreadrefinedsugarloving mama. And don't get me wrong, I love good, healthy food-the kind that once had roots-- but let's call a spade a spade here. Most of what I was eating never required the use of a spade, or any other gardening tool to get it to my plate. So my first order of business was to find a good, safe eating plan to detoxify my body from my most recent gastronomic transgressions. I wasn't sure if it would have any effect on my current state of unwellness but I was willing to give it a try.

Each time I googled terms associated with detoxification, I was immediately directed to wellness programs recommended by
raw foodists (my own term because I'm not sure what to call them).
I spent an entire weekend reading and reviewing countless articles about the nutritional and health benefits of a raw food lifestyle. Admittedly, I was intrigued.
I zeroed in on the articles that specifically detailed the foods that would encourage ones body to maintain a proper Ph level--not too acidic or too alkaline. This was a subject repeatedly presented to me by one of my doctors who detected (from extensive blood work) that I was running on the high side of acidic. As it turned out, most of what I put in my body was on the list of high-acid foods. To my surprise, most of what I thought belonged on the "acidic" list (and thus, avoided), was actually part of the alkaline family of foods. Who knew?

After much deliberation, I decided to try a raw food plan for one week. I would determine at the end of the week if there was a significant change in my overall feeling of well being.
I dragged the juicer up from the basement and compiled a lengthy shopping list. On the upside, I wouldn't be using my oven much and would likely save a few bucks on my utility bill. On the downside, I had danced with organics before and found them totally unaffordable. What I didn't anticipate however, was the sheer inability to locate merchants who carried more than half of what was on my list. My first (and very unsuccessful) trip had me walking the non-produce aisles of a supermarket thinking to myself "what do these people eat?" Save for the fruits and veggies already in my cart, there was quite literally nothing to eat--well, at least nothing that appeared on my computer generated shopping list.
Disappointed, I returned home and placed an online order for several raw items, the likes of which included familiar nuts, seeds, and dried fruits, and an assortment of foreign items like Himalayan sea salt, raw hemp seed powder, and chia seeds (I have no idea if these are related to the famed Chia Pet, but I seriously considered eating a Chia-Pig right out of the box during a particularly hungry trip to Wal Mart). That handful of items cost me one weeks grocery money and none of it required the use of a fork.
I was worried.

Several articles warned about the side effects of detoxing too quickly. For this reason, I opted to stay close to home on days one and two. This is advisable only for someone who isn't constantly thinking about food, and isn't surrounded by foodie magazines, kitchen gadgetry, and a pantry full of teen-friendly snacks. Clearly, I had my work cut out for me. I passed the time by reading raw food cookbooks (I kick myself every time I have to repeat that ridiculous term), and testimonials from the rich, the famous, and the ordinary, about the life changing effects of a raw food diet.
As it turned out, sticking close to home was a good idea since days one and two consisted solely of clear liquids and small portions of raw, organic produce. Use your imagination.

I wish to spare you the sordid details, so let me offer you a summarization of my week on the wild side, beginning with day three:

Many who subscribe to the raw food lifestyle generally do not eat meat, or dairy, or poultry. Some however, allow their diets to include the raw, unpasteurized versions of the aforementioned including raw milk, raw-milk cheeses, and organic, fertile eggs. I challenge you to find these products locally, wherever you live. I can tell you with some surety, they are not hanging around my neck of the woods. So, breakfast on day three immediately presented a challenge for me. I settled on a slice of sprouted bread with a schmear of raw honey (oh come on, just because I can't have a bagel, doesn't mean I can't use the lingo) with a handful of raw pumpkin seeds, raw sunflower seeds and dried fruit--all washed down with a home-juicer concoction of carrots, apples and pears.
I missed my cereal. I missed my yogurt. And I was already jonesing for a baconeggandcheese on a roll (that's how we say it around these parts) in anticipation of the misery to come.

A raw food diet is not complicated, although some of the ingredients are (I never gave a moments consideration to sprouting my own nuts, beans and seeds for bread or making my own nut milk from raw nuts, but, to each his own. I simply do not have the time or inclination to do so).

I entertained the thought of a simple raw nut-butter and jelly sandwich on sprouted bread for lunch, but the jelly part turned (an otherwise simple American staple) into an intensely complex production requiring a blender, a dehydrator, teflex sheets and a food processor. Making raw preserves takes forty-eight hours and surely by then I would have been dead from starvation (keep in mind here that although I've been known to put up a few jars of homemade preserves, I always believed squeezable jelly was a groundbreaking invention). So, PB & J was out.
For lack of any better ideas, I settled on steamed kale, quinoa and raw pine nuts for lunch
(minimal cooking at temps lower than one hundred fifteen degrees is permitted on a raw food diet).
It was uneventful, less than memorable, but I was full.

When I had a hankering for a midday snack, I turned to the dried fruits and raw cacao nibs I purchased online. Throughout the day, I munched on raw veggies, drank plenty of water and made a few cups of herbal tea from organic tea leaves (no bag, no string, higher price).
By this time on day three, the sense of deprivation I felt was overwhelming, but I won't lie to you; I was surprised to discover that I wasn't experiencing what I call the "witching hour," usually around late afternoon, I am ready for a nap. Just three days in, I found that I was able to skip my usual cup of joe to ward off that drowsy feeling.

Dinnertime frustrated me. I couldn't seem to find a protein I liked that was acceptable on the raw food plan. I tried to have an open mind and purchased a package of cold-smoked salmon, hoping to replicate a weekend brunch I had many times at my childhood friend Ellen Bernstein's house. Only this time, there would be no toasted everything bagel and no mountain of cream cheese. I sliced extra onion to layer atop the (sprouted) bread and salmon sandwich upon which I spread mashed avocado. I ate it -and hated it. I dreamed about that avocado nestled between sour cream and queso fresco on a crispy taco. I got through it in anticipation of the smoothie ahead of me.

The smoothie is one of my great success stories on this plan. I discovered that rice milk is nearly undetectable when combined with an assortment of fresh and frozen organic fruits. It fulfills the need for a small amount of liquid to blend otherwise chunky ingredients to a smooth consistency. I already had a jug of raw agave nectar in my arsenal (months prior I had been experimenting with different sugars in my attempt to battle chronic fatigue and the crash commonly associated with the consumption of refined sugars) and it served me well as an added sweetener when necessary. The rest of my family had steered clear of my alien menu until the smoothies invaded my kitchen. They were on board for every fruit (and often veggie) concoction I whipped up, with rave reviews.

With a full day of raw food under my belt, I retired to bed and slept soundly until my alarm rang the next morning. I managed to get through another twenty four hours on the plan (eating variations of the same foods), with a noticeable rise in my energy level.
On day five however, I called it quits.
My reasons are simple.
I don't suppose it would be fair for me to assess whether or not the plan was working because clearly, I didn't give it enough time. What I can tell you is that there was improvement not only in my energy level, but my body in general, seemed to be operating with more regularity. While the dizziness remained unchanged, I slept more soundly than I had in months and as a frequent sufferer of headaches, I am pleased to report that I was headache free for my short time on the plan.
Coincidence? Perhaps.
So why did I quit?
Well for starters, I knew I was in trouble when I found myself clutching my sheet pans and asking out loud "how would salami taste in a cookie?"
But truth be told, the real catalyst was the arrival of my beloved cooking magazines. One article in particular struck a chord with me and there was no turning back. It featured recipes for healthier versions of comfort foods and the accompanying pages depicted families sharing homestyle meals around a well-worn dinette.
There was no choice involved in my surrender. Those families in the photos might as well have been my family and that sauce-spattered tablecloth, my own.
Times like these, when our nation is on the cusp of something, and jobs are hard to come by, we all need something to depend on. I can't think of a more solid foundation than my old dining table and my rickety ladderback chairs to comfort us during a period of such uncertainty. Somehow, the notion of a raw meal spread upon inherited table linens doesn't bode well with me.
On a more personal note, I know that over the past decade, many things about me have changed. I have joined the ranks of the over-forty set, my memory isn't what it used to be and I no longer recognize the names of the IT celebrities--but to those who know me and love me, I'll always be the cook. That's right, the cook, not the salad maker, or the juicer or the sprouted-bread maker--THE COOK.
As my nest gets emptier, I am comforted by the notion that wherever my children are, they might look forward to returning home for a favorite meal. They will remember my simple advice that in social situations, the ice can always be broken with a discussion about food--the universal equalizer. They will remember my mantra that nothing in life can't be improved with a little melted Mozzarella. And maybe, just maybe, they will remember what joy homemade food has brought to our household and they will carry on the tradition with their own children someday.
I rest my case.

Were my efforts for naught?
I dare say they weren't.
As I am typing this post, I am munching on a mix of raw seeds and raw cacao nibs, a surprising and tasty addition to our snack pantry.
My blender remains on my kitchen counter as a permanent addition to my most-used kitchen appliances. Since the beginning, we haven't missed a day of homemade smoothies.
Kale has become one of our produce staples. After all of the fuss and experimenting, it turns out we like it best raw and slapped on a sandwich.
Agave nectar has replaced the addition of sugar in our beverages and wherever possible.
I spend more time in the produce aisle and the perimeter aisles of the grocery store than anywhere else.
I have a newfound respect for the role protein plays in ones diet. My hat goes off to those who maintain a raw lifestyle and manage to creatively prepare a very limited selection of raw proteins.
You don't know what you have until you can't find it.

Quite honestly, I was surprised at how many of the raw food items I enjoyed ( I stand firm however, in my protest against outrageous prices--one small loaf of sprouted bread costs five bucks). Perhaps as more of us rethink that term consumption, focusing primarily on consuming more of what comes from the earth, and less on our role as consumers who depend so heavily on chemically engineered foods, we will have more available to us-- at more affordable prices.

That is not to say however, that I will ever permanently give up the all-American hot dog at a family picnic, or pass up the opportunity for a diner breakfast at midnight with a dear friend. But I am committed to making more conscious choices for the sake of my health.

In retrospect, I wish I could have been one of those raw diet success stories.
But alas, it was not meant to be.
Tomorrow morning I will once again browse the want ads, quite possibly with coffee and donut in hand, content to accept the fact that my goose, quite literally, is cooked.


Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

OAT TO SELF: Use Your Grain

Mares and Does might have appreciated oats as a viable food source long before the rest of us, but it wasn't until recently that I added them to my own diet.
It wasn't for lack of trying that my own mother couldn't get me to eat oatmeal as a child, and she finally laid the matter to rest (dumbfounded) when I failed to appreciate that childhood favorite, the oatmeal cookie.

What's not to like about oats?
It's a question I've heard many times but haven't been able to answer until recently. As an adult, I recognize the importance of whole grains as part of a balanced diet, and more specifically for the health benefits associated with regular consumption of oats. After trying several varieties, it was a pot of perfectly cooked, steel-cut oats that finally convinced me my issue is more with texture than it is with flavor.
I put oats on the back burner for a while and concentrated my efforts on using more whole grain flours in my baked goods.
That is, until now.

Like many, in an attempt to make resolutions for 2009 that would encourage me rather than discourage me, I set out to make small changes to my diet and lifestyle--changes that would require little effort, yet allow for significant improvement.
And so, once again oats were back on the table.

As with any task, I needed proper motivation. Who better to
turn to for a nutritional pep-talk than my favorite power-food
author, Jonny Bowden?
I dug out my well-worn copy of his book The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth and turned to the chapter on Grains. Much of the information I read was familiar to me, like the fact that oats are heart-healthy and can help lower bad cholesterol and triglycerides. What I hadn't realized however, is that oats have the highest protein content of any cereal (in addition to its 5g of fiber content). Where carbs are concerned, oats pack a very low glycemic load.
For a carb-lover like me, that's a win-win.
It's no wonder why Jonny Bowden calls oatmeal the
"Muhammad Ali of foods."

But what's a carb-loving, oatmeal-hating woman to do?
The same thing she always does; take a not-so-favorite, healthy ingredient and hide it in a cookie.
The hiding part however, proved to be more complicated than expected. After much ado, I discovered that my plan to use ground oats as the sole replacement for flour wasn't fool proof. The first few batches served as lessons in what not to do. While I love a loaded cookie as much as the next gal, the addition of fruit and nuts did little to mask the texture of a mostly-oat cookie. My first batch was grainy but had good flavor. By substituting some of the oats with only whole grain flour, I arrived at a slightly smoother cookie whose flavor (unfortunately) seemed a cry for regularity.
In the end perseverance paid off and I finally arrived at a deliciously healthy cookie whose nutritional value far exceeded my expectations. My basic recipe below includes a combination of oats, ground oat flour, whole grain flour, AP flour and ground nuts which, when combined properly, allow for a moist, chewy cookie.

So encouraged by my success, I decided to take a chance and add ground oats to recipes which seemed to offer good "hiding places" for this prize-fighting grain.
To date, I have added ground oats to the likes of meatballs, meatloaf, quick breads, and even pizza dough with excellent results. I also discovered that with patience and a few additional ingredients, homemade granola far exceeds the supermarket variety.
Surprisingly, I enjoy a mostly-oat granola when it is slow-roasted to a perfect crunch.

I suppose Mom was right.
Perhaps I should have paid closer attention to the grazing fauna
of my sing-songy youth.

What do you think Mom and Jonny Bowden might say about the
nutritional benefits of ivy?

Until next time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle


I'm happy to share with you my basic recipe for a great, healthy cookie.
You can use any variety of dried fruit and nuts you choose. I prefer to use almonds or walnuts with dried blueberries or cranberries for their nutritional benefits, but make this one your own to satisfy your taste buds.
To make oat flour or nut flour, simply grind the nuts and oats separately in a food processor until it resembles fine meal.
This recipe yields about 40 cookies (depending on the size of your cookie scoop).
Store cookies in an airtight container for up to three days or freeze (completely cooled) cookies in a double layer of zipper freezer bags.

INGREDIENTS:

3/4 Cup whole oats (not quick cooking oats) separated
3/4 Cup finely ground nuts
1 Cup white whole wheat flour (or regular whole wheat flour)
1 Cup all purpose, unbleached flour
1 tsp Baking Soda
1/2 tsp Salt
1/2 Cup (1 stick) unsalted butter softened
1/2 Cup Canola oil
1/2 Cup light brown sugar
1/4 Cup granulated sugar
2 Large eggs
1 tsp. Pure vanilla extract
1 Cup dried fruit (larger fruit pieces chopped in small dice)

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Line baking sheets with parchment paper

DIRECTIONS:

Grind 1/2 cup oats in food processor until it resembles a coarse flour, combine with remaining 1/4 cup of whole oats (alternatively, for a smoother cookie, grind entire 3/4 cup oats). Place oats in large mixing bowl. Grind nuts in food processor until mixture resembles coarse meal (do not grind to wet, buttery stage). Add nuts to oats in bowl. Add flours, baking soda and salt to bowl. In another bowl, beat butter until fluffy. Add oil, sugars, eggs and vanilla. Beat until smooth and creamy. Add butter mixture to flour mixture and blend until combined. Add dried fruit and fold in by hand until well incorporated. Drop dough by spoonful onto parchment lined sheets, spacing at least one inch apart (I use a small cookie scoop and then I depress cookies slightly with the bottom end of a drinking glass which yields a flatter, more uniform cookie). Bake cookies for 12 to 14 minutes on top-middle rack in oven. Watch carefully so bottoms don't burn. If necessary, move rack to top position if bottoms darken quickly. Remove cookies when edges are slightly golden and centers appear set. For chewy cookies, allow cookies to cool completely on baking sheet set on wire rack. If you prefer a crisper cookie, remove cookies from baking sheet after five minutes and allow to cool completely on wire rack.
Enjoy!

**An added note:
Do yourself a favor and get your hands on a copy of Jonny Bowden's book
The 150 Healthiest Foods on Earth
It might be the best thing you do for yourself in 2009.
You'll learn the straight facts about what you should eat and why.
It remains my go-to food bible, and a constant source of inspiration when I'm stuck in that familiar rut of eating the same things over and over again.

Baci Il Cuoco

Much to my family's chagrin, I often remind them to thank the cook. They scoff, not because they are inconvenienced, but because they believe that the simple act of devouring a meal is indication enough that they enjoyed it. I disagree.
In this case, words just might speak louder than actions.

Several years ago, I stumbled upon a three-foot sign that reads
"Baci Il Cuoco." It means "kiss the cook" in Italian. I had to have the sign, not only because I believe in its message but because my beloved grandmother's maiden name was Cuoco, and any connection I have to her or my Italian roots is a good one. And so, the sign hangs high in my kitchen, not far from the one that reads "Mangia e statti zitto!" (loosely translated: "shut up and eat!"). For those of you who haven't already figured it out--I am an Italian-Italian wannabe. I am an Italian-American waiting for the genie to emerge from his lamp, so he can grant my first wish; the one that has my parents living in Italy, birthing and raising their brood of five above a pizzeria in Naples.
But alas, that is fodder for another post.

So let me get back to the subject of thanking the cook...
Surely, I need not remind you that cooking is as much an act of love as it is one of obligation.
I think we all need to take time out to thank not only the cook who prepares the meal, but also the one who found time to shop for groceries in between daily commitments and chaos. And while we're at it, shouldn't we thank everyone involved in getting our meals to the table?
We mustn't forget that from the farmer who rises early to pick our produce at its peak, to the cashier who works the late shift and carefully bags last-minute rotisserie chickens for harried, hungry, commuters, each plays a significant role.
The fact that we have any meal at all to share in these trying economic times is a blessing worthy of pause and gratitude.

I spent a significant amount of time this past week reflecting upon all that I have to be thankful for, specifically the blessings I have been afforded in 2008. Although it seems I was foolishly short-sighted in my own annual resolutions, so many others rose to the occasion and made me proud to call them my friends or relatives (or both).
I didn't follow through on Oprah's advice to start my own gratitude journal, and perhaps that will be something to consider for 2009. Instead, I made it my mission to thank a few special people on their birthdays and remind them (in many, many words) of their qualities and contributions for which I am so grateful. These are the people who remain oblivious to the fact that they consistently teach me valuable life lessons because they teach by example (and for the record, they remain oblivious because they are too busy helping others to notice). They provide me with a higher education of sorts; one that exceeds the parameters of professional development--they are the ones who simply make me want to be a better person.

And where education is concerned, I am no longer afraid to admit that I am still learning how to learn. At forty-something, I struggle with a not-so-reliable memory and I've had to face the cold hard truth that whatever education I seek will likely be limited to short-term retention. I am an avid reader and most of what I choose to read is culinary in nature. My failing memory has turned out to be a blessing at times because there are many kitchen experiments I'd rather forget. Sadly, the same condition has not befallen those who dine with me regularly, and perhaps this is the true reason they occasionally neglect to thank the cook. Nonetheless, I remain mindful of the basic tenets of good cookery; using the freshest ingredients and the best tools available.

Recently I was reminded of the value of great cookware. I was hosting a holiday gathering with friends when a curious neighbor inquired about my pantry cabinet and why I chose to store cookware inside, instead of the obvious non-perishables. I responded with a wordy complaint about the cookware's heft and size and my need to have it in close proximity to my stove. Our dialogue prompted me to demonstrate and lift the largest enamel-over-cast iron dutch oven I owned onto the stove, where it sat for two days until I was inspired to put on a pot of hearty soup. Quite honestly, making gallons of
pasta e fagioli seemed easier to me than the prospect of wrestling with the pot to return it to its rightful place. The soup was a huge success but the thought of storing leftovers and washing that pot was daunting at best. I used every last Tupperware within my arsenal to freeze the leftovers and filled the dutch oven with warm soapy water to soak, dreading the task of scrubbing the pot clean.
A short time later, much to my amazement, that pot cleaned up like a dream, with no elbow grease involved.
For a moment, I stood alone in my kitchen, embarrassed. When did I become a middle-aged, kitchen wimp with a failing memory?
Really, I can't answer that because I can't remember. Had I recalled why I shelled out top dollar for these pots in the first place (superior heat conduction, low maintenance, easy to clean), I might have been more motivated to use them. But there is a greater lesson to be learned here. I soon realized that on more than one occasion in my life, I have avoided tasks that, while rewarding at their completion, are difficult in their execution.
Simply stated and as shameful as it is for me to admit it, I dislike hard work. But who doesn't?

Reality dictates however, that most of us are strangers to what hard work really is. The majority of us will complain about the day job, the rush-hour traffic that follows and the self-inflicted, organized chaos we impose upon our children for fear of 'downtime'. There will never be enough paid vacation or sick days to appease us and the minor catastrophes we classify as "crisis" pale in comparison to what others endure. It shames me to think that I complained about lifting a
too-heavy pot in the comfort of my own kitchen, blessed to have more than enough ingredients to feed a not-too-hungry family, because this has been a painful year for so many, both financially and emotionally.
I have to believe that things will get better, but until they do, I can't think of a better time for us to practice being better people and put words into action.

In addition to the ones that hang on plaques in my kitchen, I am reminded of adages I heard throughout my childhood but didn't fully understand until not so long ago.
Perhaps these will serve as guideposts as I navigate through a new year of hope and possibility.
I invite you to join me and make any or all of these your own:

Many Hands Make Light Work

If You Won't Help, Don't Hinder

A Simple Life is its Own Greatest Reward

Dirty Hands = Clean Money

If we all gathered, formed a circle, and placed our problems in the center, when asked to pick one out of the center to keep, each of us would likely take back our own.

Kiss the Cook

Shut Up and Eat



Until next time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

-Michelle

Food Forethought

My long hiatus from blogging has officially ended.
While it was imperative that I focus my attention on health and family, the subject of great food was never far from my mind.

Presently, while the visions in my head aren't necessarily of sugarplums, I find myself distracted from my annual holiday
bake-a-thon (one contestant, no spectators, and A LOT of butter), as I contemplate a menu for Christmas Eve.

For years, I have wanted to recreate the traditional Christmas Eve
Feast of the Seven Fishes.
It is quite possible that I totally made up the name of that feast. There might have been more or less than seven fishes and if my memory serves me correctly, it's more of a seafood fiasco than a feast. Nonetheless, I want it, whatever it's called, and no matter how many crustaceans have to be sacrificed--I WANT IT.

There is a foggy childhood memory that haunts me to this day; one Christmas Eve, my mother presented me with an early gift. It was a rabbit fur coat with a matching hand muff, to be worn over my Sunday best. I knew we were going someplace special because an early gift was a rare occurrence.
We left holiday mass and headed for an unfamiliar address. When we arrived at the crowded house, we were ushered to a finished basement crammed with plastic-covered banquet tables, at which were seated more blue haired relatives than I had met in my lifetime. Most spoke Italian (quickly), while few spoke the same broken English as my live-in grandmothers. I was immediately taken by the smell of the basement. It was intoxicating. It was spicy and familiar and it made me hungry. As I looked around however, I was terrified of what stared back at me from huge silver bowls placed at the center of each table. Creatures I thought I recognized from encyclopedia photographs sat rigid and lifeless in pools of red velvet sauce. A feeling of panic set in and I prayed hard and fast for a slice of pizza that never materialized. I am haunted by this vivid memory, not for the sake of dead sea life, but instead because I was too young and too foolish to let such gastronomic pleasure pass me by. If only I could time-travel backward to that feted night, I would refuse the compensatory bowl of spaghetti and instead indulge, elbow to elbow, with the blue haired and the bibbed, savoring every morsel of such briny fare. But alas, it must remain only as a distant memory, rife with missed opportunities.
I long to mimic that night and play hostess to a bevy of tentacled treats.
Sadly however, I seem to be the only one in my family excited by this prospect and would likely be left to face the cracking of crustaceans alone. Each year I propose we make this tradition our own, and each year the Christmas Committee (a.k.a. my own Italian American fish-phobic family) rejects my proposal.
Had I been more diligent in my search to find a true-to-tradition Italian family, willing to adopt me for Christmas Eve, I wouldn't be faced with the daunting task of whipping up an impressive meal on the Eve of the year's most gastro-spectacular holiday.
Oy, the pressure.

While others might be content to compromise, my stubborn,
all-or-none mentality, won't allow me to.
I want the whole Italian shebang. If I can't have it all, then I don't
want ANY of it.

And so, I have decided upon a prime rib roast for dinner.
No shrimp cocktail.
No lobster tail with bland, American butter sauce.
Not even baked clams on the half shell.
No surf. Just turf.

Let them eat steak.


Until Next Time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle


MERRY CHRISTMAS!

Wait, Watch Her

It's a delicious September day here on Long Island and in my estimation, a perfect day to get back to blogging. I've missed the opportunity to share my daily rants with you, but I'd be lying if I didn't admit that my time off was a welcome hiatus from my ordinary life.

I want to get back to what's important (our never-ending discussion about food, of course) but I owe you at least a few details of how my summer was spent.
Let's just say I've been around the block a few times. Literally.

I left you in June with the notion that I would inevitably succumb to the pressures of dieting and join countless others in an organized
(read: conformist) attempt to shed unwanted pounds.
And so I did.
I forked over the hard earned cash and joined the club no one wants to belong to. The most difficult task however, was the prospect of owning my number on the scale. I much prefer the don't ask, don't tell policy when it comes to weighing in, but unfortunately, this wasn't an option.
Thankfully, the institution I joined is like Vegas, what happens there, stays there.

I won't bore you with the minute details of my struggle with points and portion control, so, in a nutshell, here's what happened:
I followed the plan.
I complained a lot.
I ate less and exercised more.
I lost fourteen pounds (with fourteen more to go)
And then I quit.

Yep, that's right, I quit.
I probably would have earned useless (albeit pretty) key fobs and incentive charms had I stuck around long enough to meet specific benchmarks (and ultimately my goal weight), but I had an epiphany somewhere along the way and decided that thirty bucks a month would likely have greater impact on my life being put to more entertaining use at a casino.
I should probably also mention that my first trip to a Connecticut casino yielded this beginner two thousand clams from a shiny slot machine. Needless to say, I'm more than willing to consider replacing my food addiction with gambling.
But seriously, after months of following the plan, I became resentful of some of the information presented to members by "meeting leaders." Some days, I felt like a test subject for a pilot program that might have been called "Dieting for Dummies." Most of the question and answer sessions were interrupted by plugs for brand products conveniently sold at meeting locations.

And interestingly enough, the leader and the receptionist who couldn't even remember my first name, and rarely took the time to provide detailed answers to multi-faceted questions (well, how can a ten-ounce cupcake add two pounds of fat to ones hips???) suddenly found the time to hand write postcards telling me they missed me and wanted me back ,after I quit.

And so, although the plan works and it's basically fool proof--if you follow the rules--I credit my slowly shrinking waistline to more than just a commercial diet plan. The fact is, I received more motivation and willpower from my walking buddy than any meeting leader might have afforded me.
I mentioned earlier that I had been around the block a few times and this is the real story of my gradual (and ongoing) success;
On a pleasant night some time in late June, I spied my neighbor walking her dog. We were previously acquainted through neighborhood gatherings and high school theatre events in which both of our teenage daughters were active participants. I always thought she was a peach of a gal but life's hectic pace and our over-scheduled kids never left much opportunity for socializing.
On a whim, I decided to throw on my sneakers and offer to join her (if I had it to do all over again, I would have remembered the socks. At least now the permanent scars from subsequent blisters have some sentimental value). What transpired in the weeks that followed was better than anything I could have outlined in my commercially manufactured "Activity Journal."
My neighbor and I established an almost-daily walking routine that strengthened our resolve as much as it did our legs.
Instead of dreading the three-quarter mile trip around our circular neighborhood as I had before, time flew by, as did the miles, while we chatted about our lives--past, present, and future. We commiserated over snack-attacks, chore-challenged husbands, and our need to manage the chaos of everyday life. We rewarded ourselves from time to time (okay, a little more frequently than that) with impromptu trips to our local Crackbucks for macchiatos and lattes (you're smart enough to figure out which venue I'm referring to. Their beverages are so addictive, we're sure they're laced with something--hence the name).
And for every pound I shed, I gained new insight into the successful management of dieting and friendship and how they aren't mutually exclusive. In fact, I probably owe my walking buddy at least half the credit for keeping me on track, literally and figuratively.
That is not to say that we don't fall off the proverbial wagon and succumb to the occasional slab of lemon pound cake. But we get back up, dust ourselves off and acknowledge that life offers little joy without the occasional indulgence in great food (and I assure you, nothing, and I mean NOTHING, that comes pre-packaged and stamped with the commercial diet plan seal of approval qualifies as great food).

With summer winding down and two successful months under our belts, I was blindsided by a nasty summer illness whose presence still lingers today. I was benched from walking for a while and it was during this recuperation that I gave some deep thought to the prospect of quitting the club.
Undoubtedly, I was enjoying life as a smaller version of me and I was eager to reach that seemingly attainable target number on the scale. But smaller jeans weren't providing me with the euphoria I expected. I was missing something and my futile attempts at suppressing the truth of the matter were waring me thin but unhappy.
You may recall that I decided to hang up my apron in June. I took off the oven mitts and intended to live life as one of the others (the ones who don't cook or bake, and don't care to). But I was fooling no one--least of all myself. This leopard couldn't change her spots any more than she could exchange her pots for pre-packaged meals. I needed to come to terms with the fact that I missed my kitchen and my gadgets. And more importantly, I missed the experience of sharing great food with the people who love me no matter what size my jeans are.

And so I made the decision to quit.
But not in the sense that I gave up dieting, weight management or portion control.
I tried to explain to my meeting leader (and a nosy receptionist) that I would continue the plan on my own and on my own terms. They scoffed. They regurgitated statistics about success rate (or lack thereof) without the support of fellow members and moderators.
I explained that I had a strong support system (with no prepayment necessary) and that I was eager to experiment with a more realistic approach to weight management. One that allows a food-centric woman to indulge in the occasional cupcake without the need for calculation or confession.
They wished me well but told me in no uncertain terms that I would likely return; and they would embrace me with open arms (after I paid for registration, stepped onto the scale, and slapped on a name tag).
I left the diet center with a bit of apprehension.
While motivated, I was still unsure of how to balance my love of food with my need to maintain a healthy weight and lifestyle. I didn't want to prove them right and return to the center pounds heavier than the weight at which I joined. And so, where does that leave me?

I am fueled by the knowledge that healthful eating is only as complicated as I make it.
I have heard tell from seasoned chefs that the quality of a meal is only as good as the tools and ingredients used to make it. I believe the same can be said for lifestyle as it pertains to good health and weight management. Like those obscure kitchen gadgets rarely used, but tucked safely away in my kitchen drawer should a need arise, I possess the essential tools to maintain a more slender, healthier me. I realize now that I have always had these tools at my disposal but failed to call upon them in the past for fear that life would be flavorless.
I understand now that I can have it all; I can have my cake and eat it too.
The slice may be a bit smaller but I'd rather have a small slice of real cake than a perfectly portioned low-fat popsicle any day. And if reality dictates that my pasta portion must be downsized, then so be it. A petite plate of pasta beats the pants off a platter of soba noodles any day.

And when all else fails, and I become deaf to the voice of reason, hearing only the sweet song of sinful indulgence, I will turn to my greatest defense--the support of a friend who understands and acknowledges the joys and struggles a food-centric life affords.

I take comfort in knowing that I am not alone.
Like me, there are so many who fight the daily battle between good health and happiness (and let's face it, they're not called Happy Meals for nothing).
If more of us took the approach that whatever food vices or demons we battle, the simple (but sometimes difficult) act of moderation makes a healthier weight more manageable.

Perhaps I am a bit misguided as that meeting leader suggested.
Maybe I am prime candidate for relapse and reconciliation.
But I'm betting on my success.
Visualization worked for me in an effort to improve my chances at the casino. I imagined a windfall sizeable enough to afford the purchase of a laptop. And today, as I type away at my new MAC Notebook, I imagine a happier, healthier me, preparing great food and savoring the flavors of a food-centric and fulfilling life.

For those meeting leaders and members who watched this hopeful woman make her exit, I would implore them to reserve judgement and avoid the urge to assume that her failure is inevitable.

Just wait, watch her.


Until next time,

Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle

Driving Without a Map

Well, after much deliberation, I have decided to give myself the summer off from writing and baking. I'm not sure which one I will miss more.
It seems that I have lost something, but I haven't yet been able to identify what that something is. Perhaps it is my mojo after all.

Recently, I took some time to read through my older posts in an attempt to discern in what direction (if any) I am headed.
As it turns out, in writing (as in life), I am better able to find my way by following intuition rather than by following a map.

During a late night out with girlfriends and a lengthy debate over the long-term effectiveness of commercial (read: expensive) diet plans (requiring the purchase and consumption of diet-brand
pre-packaged meals), I reached the unfortunate conclusion that my skinny alter-ego wants her moment in the sun (sans baggy t-shirt). Encouraged by a friends recent weight loss (seventeen pounds in what seems like twenty minutes--Kudos to you, girlfriend--you look marvelous), I am struggling to find my own solution. I am strongly opposed to commercial diet plans for a long list of reasons which I won't bore you with (not the least of which is that I cannot justify spending the same amount weekly for my own meals that I would spend to feed a family of four-and don't get me started on health concerns over foreign ingredients and microwave dependency).

At this juncture, I only know a few things:
I know that I cannot afford to replace my pesticide-laden produce with organics.
I know that I cannot cut it as a farmer or a farmer's wife (and speaking of which, has anyone seen that show Farmer Wants a Wife? Although I hate to admit it, I'm addicted to the show--and not just for the sake of taking a gander at Farmer's six-pack--have you seen those quilts?).
So getting back to organics, growing my own produce is out of the question.
I know that I hate to exercise but love to dance.
I know that I wish laughing was a competitive sport because I'd be quite a contender.
I know that wine doesn't really cut it as a TV snack, even if you pretend to chew it.
I know that tankinis are made for one body type only, and apparently, I don't have that body type.
I know that buying a skirted bathing suit means you should probably just wear shorts.
I know that swim shorts were invented for women who avoid wearing skirted bathing suits and ultimately, everyone knows why you bought the shorts.
I know that I wish those flattering swim cover-ups were water-proof.
I know that having darker, tanner skin doesn't necessarily make you look smaller (I guess that rule only applies to black pants).
I know that a great straw hat can draw attention away from too-wide hips (but one should avoid wearing said straw hat into a rough ocean).
I know that when I stand in front of a mirror, wondering why the bathing suit I loved last year only looks good this year when accompanied by a straw hat, a flattering cover up and high-heeled wedge sandals, it has nothing to do with the bathing suit (seriously, how does one swim in heels anyway?).

And finally, I know that a diet plan which allows for cupcakes
and foot-long hot dogs probably requires purging, and so,
I'm still looking for a diet plan.

That's it.
That's all I've got.

I'd like to add however, that my search isn't only about weight loss.
I suppose I'm as good a candidate as any for a perimenopausal
forty-something crisis (if that's what this is then someone should warn my loved ones).
As the parent of one college student (who enjoys living away from home more than I ever expected she would) and one teenager (in desperate need of drum lessons and concert tickets), I find myself with a bit more time to focus on my own needs. My inability to define those needs outside the realm of edibles, is what terrifies me.
For far too long I have depended on the confines of my kitchen to serve as a safety net and welcome distraction from life's little catastrophes. And although there is no greater confidante than homemade bread dough (active, responsive, resilient and attentive-all the qualities of a good friend with no baggage), I am eager to untie my apron strings and experience a life without oven mitts.

I can't change the fact (nor do I wish to) that I am a hard-wired food lover. I still rise and rest to thoughts of gastronomic pleasure.
But I need more.
I recall a friend's grandmother saying "Sometimes, it's good to be hungry."
I'm not sure I'll ever know exactly what she meant by that. I have a feeling however, that for me, personally, a little hunger might do me a world of good.

And so, my search begins without a plan, a map, or a recipe to follow.
Yesterday, this would have been a daunting prospect.
But today, intuition is on my side.

And come to think of it, I'm a little bit hungry.


Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

--Michelle



Have a delicious summer!
See you in the fall.

When Life Isn't Fare

In general, mankind, since the improvement of cookery,
eats twice as much as nature requires.
~Benjamin Franklin


I spent the better part of this past week weighing the pros and cons of joining a gym (I’ll pretty much weigh anything to avoid putting myself on the scale). I’m just not sure I have the right personality for a gym-goer. I’m not a fan of routine and I prefer the kind of exercise that happens by accident (not to mention that our local gym is in the same parking lot as a really good bagel place and with gas prices being what they are, I can’t justify NOT picking up a dozen for the weekend).
I’m also concerned that I might not be any good at working out. For the past decade I’ve worked hard to perfect my skills as a power-walker and I fear that cross-training might confuse muscle memory (and since I already suffer from CRS, this could be dangerous).
By weeks end, I came to the unfortunate conclusion that in order to meet my weight loss goal, I basically have two choices:
(1) I can become one of those people who eats to live, rather than one who lives to eat.
Or
(2) I can hire a local bakery to drive their truck at a moderate speed consistently just yards ahead of me, around and around my circular neighborhood for a daily five-mile chase, and then speed off before my eager palms meet buttery brioche.

Again, gas prices being what they are make the latter totally impractical, and so I am left to face the harsh reality of being someone who is genetically predisposed to the enjoyment of food and the distaste for exercise.

I wanted to believe that it was just a myth that some people eat only to live because the very thought of such a lifestyle saddens me.
The person who eats only to live likely doesn’t spend much time thinking or learning about food. Without understanding the finer nuances of food, it seems impossible that one could enjoy the flavors and the sensory experience it has to offer. But over time, I have been forced to finally acknowledge that such alien creatures exist, as they have infiltrated my family and my friendships.
Black-belt dieters will tell you such a lifestyle is about choice, commitment and willpower and has little to do with nature.
While this may apply to some (and I will be first to applaud their determination), I would argue that the greater population represents a dichotomy as simple as the question boxers or briefs?
Most of us fall into one of two categories; either you love food,
or you don’t.
It’s no secret that ones relationship with food is paramount to the body’s well-being. In this case, there is good love and there is
bad love. We all know that emotional eating can be the catalyst for a myriad of physical and mental complications, but the love I am referring to is more about the appreciation for the sensory experience food has to offer, and not for a void it is expected to fill.
Explaining this isn’t as easy as it may seem, but allow me to try.

A few years ago I discovered my unfortunate inability to understand or appreciate wine. Glass for glass my own pedestrian assessment of “dry” or “sweet” paled in comparison to my husband’s descriptive interpretations and his ability to detect flora and flavor unfamiliar to my oeno-phobic palate.
To this day, he cannot wrap his head around my affinity for cheap wine (and even the occasional wine cooler), and I just don’t get what the big deal is about wine in general. If it tastes good, I’ll drink it (truth be told, I’d rather have a Sam Adams).
I may never understand how one glass of wine can be interpreted so differently by two people, but I completely appreciate the passion with which my husband approaches his first sip. The complexities of wine elude me but the passion for such a flavor-driven experience is an old familiar friend.

I would argue that those who eat to live are not passionate about food. They understand and accept the need to satiate hunger but will never know what it means to mourn the loss of good food. This is precisely why they rise above the rest of us as successful dieters (I would imagine these are the same folks who suggest that it is inadvisable to shop for groceries when one is hungry.
Who pray tell, shops for groceries when the pantry and fridge are full? Chances are if I’m at the grocery store, it’s because the cupboards are bare and I’m starving—not withstanding the fact that I’m always hungry).

I wish I could eat just for the sake of squelching hunger, and drink for the sake of quenching thirst. But we, who live to eat, approach food with all of our senses—and perhaps more.
We spend much of our waking hours thinking about food—all food; the good, the bad, and the ugly. For us, the simple act of feeding others can be euphoric. We read about food. We talk about food.
We talk about reading about food. Cookbooks are our novels and the kitchen is our playground. We plan meals. We make meals. We share meals. When free time allows, we watch food on TV. We visit online communities and e-chat with like minded individuals worldwide about food. We ask questions about food and we share our knowledge of food. We live vicariously through the global gastronomic experiences of others. Some of us bake for sport, and feel true joy when others indulge in our efforts. When night falls, we rest well thinking about tomorrow’s first cup of coffee and another day filled with gastronomic possibility (and somehow we manage to squeeze in those mundane tasks like daily household chores and shopping for the basics. When we go to the market for food, staple items are often secondary—seemingly inconsequential. I’ve been known to get lost in the produce department as I ponder the beauty and succulence of seasonal fruit, and then proudly return home with a cache of nature’s perfectly ripened specimens, only to realize that we are still out of toilet paper and milk).

Living to eat is joyful.
The experience of a fine meal can be so much more than a physical one. Breaking bread is spiritual beyond religious parameters.
A meal shared is flavorful medicine for the soul.
But as with any medicine, there are side effects. Not the least of which is the potential for a forty-something, rapidly-expanding waistline.
Apparently, I’ve got a lot of potential.

And so presently, the scale and I are in a bit of a tangle.
If I could rewind the clock twenty-five years, the solution
would be simple. I would call upon the wisdom of adolescent
meal-management and go back to eating dinner in my bikini.
But alas, there are now adolescents of my own to consider.
I must spare their appetites the atrocities of my midsection and
find another solution.
Thankfully however, with middle-age comes middle-wisdom. I am acutely aware of my ever-morphing middle and experience has taught me what meals and measures are necessary to motivate my metabolism. I need to focus once again on whole foods; fruits, grains, lean proteins, and anything leafy and green.
I need to put down the pie and pick up the pace. I need to drink like a fish and pee like a race horse and…well, you get the idea.
Knowledge is indeed power, but dieting is still a pain in the ass.

As I consider the challenges of calorie counts and portion control, I am painfully reminded of what seems like a lifetime of schizophrenic eating.
I have been many versions of me— from mini-me to maxi-me, and everything in between. Comparatively speaking, there is more of me today than there was just a few years ago. This applies not only to my physical being however, but to my emotional and spiritual being as well.
The irony here is that by all (non-physical) measurements, I like me in my present form better than all the others. My mind, body and heart are all more substantial than they were in my twenties or my thirties.
So how do I shrink the outside without shrinking the inside?
If I remove food (as I know it) from the equation, basically it would change the whole equation.
I suppose I might find a new hobby, but how does one knit while holding a cupcake?

Clearly, it’s time for me to make a few changes—but I don’t have to like it.
For years I was able to get away with the no pain, no gain philosophy of eating. I would avoid any exercise that pained me, eat whatever I wanted (in moderation) and gain little or no additional weight.
Today however, I wear a slice of pizza much differently than I did in my twenties.

Perhaps it’s time to reassess what a moderate ice cream sundae looks like. Better yet, I might have to skip the ice cream sundae altogether and find something a bit more figure friendly.
This is not a happy time.

Back in my successful dieting days (before I discovered the joys of panna-cotta, and crème brulee), Jell-O was the panacea of choice for my need to be desserted. Today however, I think I would rather chase that bakery truck for ten miles and indulge in an occasional crème brulee than resort to such vivid, synthetic sweets.

And so I am left to solve a dilemma that is perhaps unsolvable.
I might just take another crack at my husband’s copy of
Wine for Dummies. Instead of reaching for a vanilla cone with sprinkles, perhaps I’ll do my heart and hips a favor and choose a glass of Cabernet instead (although I’m not sure how to get
the ice cream man to comply).

In the meantime, I haven’t ruled out that gym membership.
A friend of mine tells me she knows a great personal trainer
who will whip me into shape in time for bathing suit season.
I wonder if he likes cheesecake?

Because from where I sit,
Life is fare.

Until Next Time,
Make Life Delicious
Share Your Food

Michelle


I can’t resist the urge to share with you some (okay, more than some) funny quotes about eating and dieting.
We’ve all been there at one time or another and it’s nice to be reminded that we are not alone in our daily struggle.
If hunger strikes while you're reading (and unless you're a speed reader, it will), allow me to recommend my new favorite candy bar; actually, it's not a candy bar at all but instead a fruit and nut,
flavor-packed bar with no funky ingredients. It's called a LARA BAR and it fills the need when hunger strikes. I hesitate to call this a
meal-replacement bar because for me, it doesn't cut it. When I'm at work however, it solves the dilemma of 5(+)hours with no break. Instead of reaching for the usual, portable fat-laden snacks, I grab a Lara Bar. To date, my favorites include Cashew Cookie, Key Lime Pie, Pecan Pie and Cherry Pie. These are gluten-free, dairy-free and preservative free. The bars never contain more than six ingredients and I believe they qualify as raw food (if you're into that kind of thing). They can be pricey but if you shop around (read:Amazon), you can usually find a coupon code for a quantity discount and free shipping.
Whoever this Lara is, I love her.

Now, chew on these (delicious enjoyment, zero calories):

The cardiologist's diet: If it tastes good, spit it out.
~Author Unknown

One should eat to live, not live to eat.
~Cicero, Rhetoricorum LV

Inside some of us is a thin person struggling to get out, but they can usually be sedated with a few pieces of chocolate cake. ~Author Unknown

I feel about airplanes the way I feel about diets. It seems to me that they are wonderful things for other people to go on.
~Jean Kerr, "Mirror, Mirror, on the Wall," ~ The Snake Has All the Lines, 1958

I've decided that perhaps I'm bulimic and just keep forgetting to purge. ~Paula Poundstone

In the Middle Ages, they had guillotines, stretch racks, whips and cahins. Nowadays, we have a much more effective torture device called the bathroom scale.
~Stephen Phillips

People are so worried about what they eat between Christmas and the New Year, but they really should be worried about what they eat between the New Year and Christmas.
~Author Unknown

Albert Einstein, who discovered that a tiny amount of mass is equal to a huge amount of energy, which explains why, as Einstein himself so eloquently put it in a famous 1939 speech to the Physics Department at Princeton, "You have to exercise for a week to work off the thigh fat from a single Snickers." ~Dave Barry, Dave Barry Turns 50

I've been on a diet for two weeks and all I've lost is fourteen days. ~Totie Fields

Rich, fatty foods are like destiny: they too, shape our ends.
~Author Unknown

The biggest seller is cookbooks and the second is diet books - how not to eat what you've just learned how to cook. ~Andy Rooney

Gluttony is an emotional escape, a sign something is eating us.
~Peter De Vries

If hunger is not the problem, then eating is not the solution.
~Author Unknown

Nothing tastes as good as being thin feels. ~Author Unknown

If I had been around when Rubens was painting, I would have been revered as a fabulous model. Kate Moss? Well, she would have been the paintbrush.
~Dawn French

No diet will remove all the fat from your body because the brain is entirely fat. Without a brain, you might look good, but all you could do is run for public office.
~George Bernard Shaw

The first thing you lose on a diet is your sense of humor.
~Author Unknown

Food is like sex: when you abstain, even the worst stuff begins to look good.
~Beth McCollister

I go up and down the scale so often that if they ever perform an autopsy on me they'll find me like a strip of bacon - a streak of lean and a streak of fat. ~Texas Guinan

Life itself is the proper binge.
~Julia Child

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst, for they are sticking to their diets. ~Author Unknown

I recently had my annual physical examination, which I get once every seven years, and when the nurse weighed me, I was shocked to discover how much stronger the Earth's gravitational pull has become since 1990. ~Dave Barry

Food has replaced sex in my life; now, I can't even get into my own pants. ~Author Unknown

To lengthen your life, shorten your meals.
~Proverb

You can't lose weight by talking about it. You have to keep your mouth shut. ~Author Unknown

I think I just ate my willpower.
~Author Unknown

If you really want to be depressed, weigh yourself in grams.
~Jason Love

Brain cells come and brain cells go, but fat cells live forever.
~Author Unknown

I am a nutritional overachiever.
~Author Unknown

The second day of a diet is always easier than the first. By the second day, you're off it. ~Jackie Gleason

If food is your best friend, it's also your worst enemy.
~Edward "Grandpa" Jones, 1978

I have a great diet. You're allowed to eat anything you want, but you must eat it with naked fat people. ~Ed Bluestone

A diet is a plan, generally hopeless, for reducing your weight, which tests your will power but does little for your waistline. ~Herbert B. Prochnow

I'm not overweight. I'm just nine inches too short.
~Shelley Winters

People say that losing weight is no walk in the park. When I hear that I think, yeah, that's the problem. ~Chris Adams

As for food, half of my friends have dug their graves with their teeth. ~Chauncey M. Depew

To promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing. ~Mark Twain, The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, 1876

I'm on a 90-day wonder diet. Thus far, I've lost 45 days.
~Author Unknown

The commonest form of malnutrition in the western world is obesity. ~Mervyn Deitel

I've been on a constant diet for the last two decades. I've lost a total of 789 pounds. By all accounts, I should be hanging from a charm bracelet.
~Erma Bombeck

My advice if you insist on slimming: Eat as much as you like - just don't swallow it. ~Harry Secombe

I am not a glutton - I am an explorer of food.
~Erma Bombeck

Forget about calories - everything makes thin people thinner, and fat people fatter. ~Mignon McLaughlin, The Second Neurotic's Notebook, 1966

When I buy cookies I eat just four and throw the rest away. But first I spray them with Raid so I won't dig them out of the garbage later. Be careful, though, because that Raid really doesn't taste that bad.
~Janette Barber

It would be far easier to lose weight permanently if replacement parts weren't so handy in the refrigerator. ~Hugh Allen

A waist is a terrible thing to mind. ~Tom Wilson

If you have formed the habit of checking on every new diet that comes along, you will find that, mercifully, they all blur together, leaving you with only one definite piece of information: french-fried potatoes are out.
~Jean Kerr

All people are made alike -
of bones and flesh and dinner -
Only the dinners are different.
~Gertrude Louise Cheney

My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. ~Orson Welles

Fat is not a moral problem. It's an oral problem.
~Jane Thomas Noland

Never eat more than you can lift.
~Miss Piggy

If you wish to grow thinner, diminish your dinner.
~H.S. Leigh

Obesity is a mental state, a disease brought on by boredom and disappointment.
~Cyril Connolly, The Unquiet Grave

There is a charm about the forbidden that makes it unspeakably desirable. ~Mark Twain

Probably nothing in the world arouses more false hopes than the first four hours of a diet. ~Dan Bennett

I bought a talking refrigerator that said "Oink" every time I opened the door. It made me hungry for pork chops.
~Marie Mott

And my personal favorite:

When we lose twenty pounds... we may be losing the twenty best pounds we have! We may be losing the pounds that contain our genius, our humanity, our love and honesty.
~Woody Allen