Overfed and Undernourished... Grrr!

"A diet based on quantity rather than quality has ushered a new creature onto the world stage: the human being who manages to be both overfed and undernourished."

~Michael Pollan, In Defense of Food

           We live in such a bizarre world. The dialogue surrounding my recent test result posts sparked quite a bit of reflection and contemplation on my part—beyond my ongoing personal health puzzle. 

I’ve been slowly digesting each morsel of feedback and response, as well as chewing a bit more carefully on my own written words. (I can't help it; overanalyzing is what I do best!) And this post is my attempt to share some of what’s been running through my mind.

            I find it so interestingly ironic that regarding my alleged metabolic issues, as Eimear of Vegan Dukka Girl pointed out in her comment on Part Two, I’d survive just fine in a time of famine—just like my ancient (and not so ancient) ancestors obviously did thanks to their fleshy fat stores. My closest European ties are Irish, Swiss, and Scottish, and you can bet some of my people were caught up in that blasted potato famine.

Yet, while my ancestors near starved to death for a lack of sustenance, here I am surrounded by food and able to eat so little of it without getting sick. Overfed and undernourished—the dietary dilemma of the Western World.
            It really is pure preposterousness that I can literally stuff my face 24 hours a day if I so choose in this country (very cheaply), and yet, the more I eat, the sicker I become. And again, it's not just me; the number of folks with food allergies, sensitivities, and intolerances continues to grow at an alarming rate. The sad truth is that most people aren't even aware of how the foods they eat are affecting their overall health and well-being.  

            A few months ago, I submitted an essay to a contest revolving around “The Morality of Profit.” In fact, in a few weeks I’ll be posting an excerpt from it and asking you to go to their website and offer social media support for it (pretty please!). More on that later.

            In the essay, I wrote about the vast array of health and environmental problems associated with the industrialization of agriculture—from mass malnourishment to global warming to the greed and profiteering of the food industry fat cats. And I told the story of a couple who retired from their lucrative careers to restore and run a small biointensive organic farm in the San Juan Islands off the coast of Seattle, Washington. I focused on the importance of people like them and the contributions they are making to the reformation of our current system of processing food in the United States of America.

Because truly, it is shameful.

            The further I’ve delved into my own dietary dilemmas, the more I believe that there is a direct link between industrial farming and corporate food processing and the ever-widening glut of people who are currently suffering from various digestive ailments and other chronic health problems. I’m not just talking about industry inventions like high fructose corn syrup  here (as I did in my earlier rants); I’m talking straight-up farming methods—as in, the way the food is produced, prior to any chemical creations and preservatives being processed into it.

Of course, it's not like I'm spouting anything new here. The irritable bowels, inflamed arteries, and insufficient metabolic activities of countless Americans can most certainly be attributed to poor diet; that's an undisputed fact in the research community at this point. And poor diet is undeniably linked (in part) to the stripping of our soil’s nutrients by the go-go-go, sell-sell-sell mentality of the U.S. agricultural industry. 

            Yes, the food is abundant. And yes, it is cheap. But when it comes to our daily bread, I think it's safe to say that cheaper is not necessarily better. The movements toward sustainable farming methods and organic, whole foods are seen by some as elitist and unrealistic, but the truth of the matter is that I and countless others have suffered immensely for placing our trust in the processed foods available today. 

           

            On that note, I must admit that in spite of the headaches, weight gain, muscle pain, fatigue, and digestive difficulties I've dealt with in recent years, I am immensely grateful that my body is smart enough to react to poor quality foods. My cells enacted an all-out revolt to the kinds of crap I was putting in my body—the symptoms of which didn’t really start surfacing until seven or so years ago.

            The changes I’ve made have changed my life for the better, but still, it’s rather silly, isn’t it? To have to think so much about food—and to have to be so obsessively selective. Hidden ingredients, false labeling, faulty processing—it’s like a battlefield out there!

            I thought maybe I'd pose a question to you all to end this rant on a postive note: How have your food sensitivities, allergies, and intolerances improved your life for the better?

Smells Like Soccer

     Don’t you just love how a simple scent can transport you to another place and time? No mental energy involved—you’re just there, in an instant.

     When I stepped outside today, after a long serving shift at the restaurant, to take my dog, Conan, for a walk, the first gulp of fresh air I breathed in filled my mind with one resounding thought: soccer.

     As a little girl, I played soccer every summer. I continued playing through my freshman year of high school, but it’s those childhood summer games that stick with me. I don’t know if it was the freshly mowed grass or the hint of June in the air or the birds chirping, but every bit of what I was inhaling late this afternoon had me back on that field, with bruised knees and grass-stained shorts, running like a maniac and feeling young and free and alive and all that good, sweet, innocent stuff.

     Oh yeah, and after every game, we’d go out for ice cream. I don’t have any dairy-free frozen desserts on hand at the moment, but the memory is sweet all the same ;-)

Conan (the barbarian)

Schizo Soul Sweetness

            Oh, ADD. I’ve never been officially diagnosed, but I and my many personalities know all too well that it’s true. Take this blog, for instance. I started out thinking I’d share about all the wonderful things being ultra-sensitive has done for me in my life. And then it became a wheat- and dairy-free product blog. But I can’t even seem to stay focused on that.

            I’m trying to “trust in the process of self-expression,” as my horoscope instructed me to do a week or so ago, but I feel myself being pulled in so many different directions that I’m surprised my head isn’t physically spinning. I’ve been clinging to my chemistry textbooks and soaking in non-fiction foodie diatribes and documentaries of late, telling myself I’m meant to be a student, and a scholar—not an artist. Perhaps, I suggest to my stifled inner child, I’ll find a way to combine the interests of the artistic self with those of the studious, cause-seeking self, but—seeing as how I’ve never been too adept at multi-tasking—don’t get your hopes up.

Truth be told, it’s been a while since I’ve tapped into my creativity. But this blog, however simple and silly it may be, is absolutely awakening something in me. Suddenly, I’m not only taking pictures of cereal boxes and popsicle sticks and simultaneously venting about and celebrating life as a food-sensitive sweet tooth; I’m writing songs again, and actually wanting to share them (yes, I sing, too).

I think I just need to embrace the fact that my artistic soul has been suffering a bit of post-traumatic stress disorder for these past many months. I won’t go into the details of said trauma, but it’s been enough to silence that most sacred part of myself for far too long: my voice. We've all got one, but sadly, only some of us ever really learn how to use it.

I am emerging, slowly but surely. I guess it took a silly blog to spark my creative spirit back into action, but I feel a change a coming. And it feels good—or perhaps more appropriately, it feels sweet.

Life is Motion (or something like that)

With all this sugar talk, you may be wondering if I have a weight problem. Or at the very least, a compulsive eating disorder. Well, I’ve actually wrestled my way through both of those things at different times in my life, but I’m happy to say that for the most part, I’ve got my head on straight now—and I can fit into my favorite jeans.

            But I’ve been having some serious trouble over the past month or so making myself go to the gym. I thrive on exercise—physically, mentally, and emotionally. And if I want to keep tasting sweet treats and writing about it, I need to get on that treadmill or those jeans won’t fit for much longer. Believe me, I’ve been there before—too many times to count, in fact. And it’s not pretty.

So, I did it. I went to the gym. It took a great deal of mental motivation—arguing back and forth with my inner couch potato and trying to reason my body into sweat-inducing movement on the way home from chem class tonight. But I did it, and it felt good.

It always amazes me how easy it is to slip out of a routine, no matter how well established it may be. Last summer, when I left my full-time job in New York City, I made the gym my life, and subsequently lost 12 pounds in just a handful of months. I was going between five and six times a week, sometimes seven. It may sound overkill, but I know from experience that I wouldn’t have lost the weight so quickly without that level of intensity.

And once the bulk of the extra weight was gone, my gym time tapered off to a more reasonable three to four times a week. This, to me, is ideal. Just enough exercise to keep me sane, stable, and healthy, but not so much that it takes over my life.

Then, in the first few weeks of January, when the rest of the country was getting all revved up for their weight-loss resolutions, I began to lose steam. I started making excuses, like how I didn’t want to wait in line for the treadmill behind all those New Year’s newbies. And how my spin class was so full I had to get there 20 minutes early just to get a bike. But the truth is, I was tired of working out; I was losing my game.

And since I started this waitressing job, I’ve been going an average of one, maybe two times a week. That might not sound all that bad, but trust me—it is. From the time I was 12 years old, I have struggled with my weight. I gain very quickly, and I lose very slowly. I’m a petite person at 5’2”, and small frames don’t carry excess weight well—unless, of course, you happen to be one of those rare and beautiful creatures whose fat settles so sensuously into all the right places. But if you’re built like me, there’s just nowhere pleasant for the blubber to hide.

            Anyway, my point with all this?  I don’t know. I feel like I’ve been finding myself in a lot of conversations lately with people who are trying to lose weight and find a dietary plan that works for them. And I guess I just want to say that I know firsthand how challenging it can be. Getting into a routine with exercise and eating (or anything, for that matter) is hard. Sticking to it is even harder. But once you get in a rhythm, you tend to forget what made it so hard in the first place. And then you grow to love it.

            In the words of my Grandpa Fred, as he lay in bed with a muscle injury a few weeks ago, expressing his frustrated acceptance of his aging body: "Life is motion; stagnation is death."  

A few additional things I’ve learned?

• Consistency is key.
• Calories in versus calories out actually does matter.
• And above all, be compassionate with yourself. Don’t freak out if you relapse into a night or two of binge-eating. Or if you fall out of your workout routine for a week or two.  It’s better to fall off and get back on again than to fall off and never get up. 

Sidenote: No sweet treats tonight, but when I got home this evening, I swear the air smelled like raspberries, and my mouth watered in anticipation. Yum.

We all Scream for... Rice Cream?

     I love my sweets. I always have, and I always will. I long ago embraced my semi-addiction to sugar as an inescapable part of my genetic fabric. Nature and nurture have had a hand in that—one of the key players being none other than my dear, sweet Grandma Joan. 

     From Mike & Ike’s to ice cream cones, Grandma Joan’s house was a treasure trove of carefully concealed goodies. When visitors came over, she would cleverly place a bowl or two of sugar-free hard candies on display in her living room, as a sort of deterrent, I believe, but I knew where she kept the good stuff.

     Not surprisingly, some of my most cherished childhood memories are of spending the night at Grandma Joan’s house. I had trouble falling asleep as a child, so I would lay in her guest room (my room while I was there) and wait until I heard her turn on the television and settle into the living room couch for her own ritualistic bout with insomnia. Then, like clockwork, I would make my way downstairs and slide in next to her, waiting to hear one single string of words from her mouth. Sure enough, within minutes of my arrival, she’d turn to me casually and say, “How about a cone?”

     Happily, I’d follow her into the kitchen to make ice cream cones. She always bought the cheapest brands, and I’d often be mildly disappointed to find only freezer-burned Neapolitan flavors or frozen yogurt in her freezer. But regardless, the sensation of that ice creamy goodness melting over my taste buds and trickling down my throat was pure bliss.

I felt such incredible kinship with my grandmother as we sat on that couch with our ice cream cones in hand, watching Audrey Hepburn and Barbara Streisand movies into the wee hours. And that comforting connection with ice cream most certainly followed me into adulthood.
     So I’m sure you can imagine my dismay when, in the summer of 2006, a routine blood test revealed that I had developed an allergy to milk. In fact, I was so resistant to this result that I didn’t officially stop eating dairy until the summer of 2009. I did stop drinking milk (for the most part) upon receipt of the lab results, but ice cream and cheese? No way.

     Alas, my mind may have been hooked on fresh mozzarella and frappuchinos, but my body revolted. I simply cannot digest dairy products. I won’t go into the details, but the reaction, which involves a lot of swelling and discomfort, has become unpleasant enough to keep me away from all things dairy—for good.

So now, imagine my sheer ecstasy when I came across Living Harvest Tempt—a rich and creamy frozen delight made from hemp milk. It is unbelievably, indescribably delicious. Since the anti-dairy diagnosis, I’ve tried coconut ice cream (I’m not a fan), and soy-based ice cream products, which make my belly blow up like a horribly unattractive balloon. But hemp-based ice cream? Divine. My favorite flavor thus far is Coffee Biscotti. I have yet to try Mint Chip and Chocolate Fudge, but that’s only because my current local grocery stores do not carry them.

Tonight, after another long waitressing shift, I decided to try a new brand: Good Karma Organic Rice Divine. Rice milk typically leaves a bad taste in my mouth, but the folks at Good Karma have managed to whip this non-dairy beverage into a light and refreshing frozen indulgence, sort of like the frozen yogurt of the non-dairy ice cream world.
     Following a brief perusal of the available flavors, I settled on Chocolate Peanut Butter Fudge,  which melted quite satisfyingly in my mouth with its gobs of peanut butter and chewy bits of fudge-like goodness. My only complaint is a slight taste of the carton having been left in the Wegman's freezer for too long.
     Then again, this hint of freezer burn actually enhanced the nostalgia of my frozen treat eating experience. If only I'd had a cone! (They do make gluten-free ones, by the way.)