Poverty Mentality

I realize that this is not a foodie blog (despite how much I love to read them), but with a new-found ability to eat (hooray for the second trimester!), I find myself thinking about food... a lot. Actually, to be totally honest, I have been thinking about food more than a healthy, normal person ever since getting pregnant-- especially during those long, sleepless nights after not being able to eat all day.

I lie awake and plan dinner menus, think of restaurants I want to spend fortunes on, and come up with elaborate party themes (and of course, the food I would serve at them). It's kind of sick, like food pornography playing in my mind.

Sometime around last week, I realized that I was able to eat little bits of food that I hadn't been able to before (which had been a list about a mile long, consisting of about everything that wasn't a cracker), and my little mind went crazy. Oh, the joy of cooking, and even better, the joy of eating. A combination of refraining from food for so long, and my hyper-sensitive pregnant nose seemed to make everything I ate taste like the nectar of the gods. So, of course, I have this poverty mentality ingrained in me now, and every time food is within reach, I try to eat everything I can-- until Chris notices & scolds me for making myself sick.

And of course, after feeling like a hermit from being confined to the couch for so long, my very first instinct is to throw a party. My first desperate clutch landed on Super Bowl Sunday. Nachos, homemade pizza (Chris makes a mean pizza), little brownies shaped like footballs... just thinking about it made me salivate. The problem is that we don't have a TV (that is, we don't have a TV that actually shows TV), and no one we knew was having a Super Bowl party.

Well, not to worry. The plan is to scurry out after church today and buy a set of rabbit ears. If it works, well then, we're watching the Super Bowl [commercials], and having ourselves a party. If not-- no problem, I am determined to make (and thoroughly enjoy-- and probably get sick from) a huge platter of nachos, brownies shaped like footballs, and homemade pizza.

You're welcome to join us, and cheer for the...um... Saints. Or the... Colts(?). Or the nachos, as I will be doing.

Best Ever Nachos:
-1 16oz. can Ducal re-fried black beans*
-1 bag Casa Sanchez thick & crispy tortilla chips**
-1 carton Casa Sanchez salsa verde**
--1/4lb. cotija cheese, shredded or crumbled*
-1 tomato, diced
-1-2 avocados
-1-2 limes
-teaspoon ground oregano (approx)
-teaspoon salt (approx)
-small bunch cilantro, chopped & 2 green onions, white parts diced (optional)
-sour cream (optional)

Instructions:
-Pre-heat oven to 200
-Spread 1/2 of chips on a large, oven-proof platter
-Dollop 1/2 of black beans & cheese over chips
-Cover with remaining chips, black beans & cheese
-Place platter in oven for about 10-15 min, or until cheese is melted & chips have browned slightly
-Slice avocado, scoop out flesh into a bowl, and mash with a fork. Add lime juice, salt & oregano to taste. If desired, add chopped cilantro & green onions
-Remove platter from oven, & top with guacamole, sour cream, diced tomatoes & salsa.
-If you prefer a meatier version, grab a rotisserie chicken, chop up some of the meat & fry it in lime juice. Add to top of nachos at end.

*available at Latin markets
**sold in San Francisco at grocery stores, Latin markets, and at their restaurant on 24th & York
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Kitchen Window

So far, it's been one of those mornings where walls seem to bump into me, objects seems to fall out of my hand, gravity seems a little stronger, and things that I dig through cabinets to find were sitting on the counter staring at me. Nothing tragic-- just one of those mornings.

Somehow I managed to work about a 14hr day yesterday, and decided to treat myself to the morning off. As I shuffled around the kitchen in my slippers, I fumbled through the process of making bran muffins, and watched the world pass by outside the window.

Living on the ground floor of a corner apartment means that there's a lot going on right outside the kitchen window. I've woken up to a homeless man bathing outside the window, seen drug deals against the window, heard all kinds of interesting & colorful conversations through the window, and waved at neighbors with purple rubber-gloved hands while doing dishes & looking out the window. But of all the sights & sounds that window provides, my three favorites are Bob, The Cuban Basset Hound, and The Cheerleader.

Bob lives on the far end of our block, and if I had to make a guess, I would say he is an Italian American in his mid-seventies who grew up in Jersey. Or maybe Brooklyn. On sunny days, he opens his garage door and sits in a lawn chair, watching the neighborhood change around him. Rumor has it, he built his house house back when our rough Latino neighborhood was made up of Italian & Irish families. I honestly wouldn't be too surprised to see him in his lawn chair with a rifle spread across his lap, muttering racial slurs, like Clint Eastwood in Gran Torino.

The Cuban Basset Hound, as we call him, doesn't actually have much to do with my story, but I just have to mention him because of the intrigue he brings from the kitchen window. "He" is actually an old wrinkly man with almost chocolate brown skin and white wavy hair, along with his wrinkly, saggy waddling basset hound that shuffle at a snail's pace up & down our block. Together, they look like they look like one entity, dragging their feet towards death's door-- that is until another dog walks by, and the comatose basset hound lunges for a kill, and the grumpy old Cuban breaks into a huge smile and laughs. Quite the transformation.

And last, but certainly not least is the Cheerleader. Every morning for several years, like clockwork, we heard the Cheerleader's singsong voice float through our window without actually seeing his identity. The morning routine is as follows: a middle-aged Asian woman half-jogs, half-walks in tiny little bouncy steps around & around our block, and is always inevitably intercepted right at our corner by The Cheerleader.

"Here she comes! Here she comes! Here she comes!" chirps The Cheerleader in a little song, shrilly squeaking out the "Here" part of the sentence in the same way every day. "You're looking good, you're looking good, you're looking good" rolls up & down like the chorus, followed by a big Mwaaaaaw of a kiss. Usually I hear through the window enthusiastic compliments & small talk, as the woman politely responds in a light Chinese accent, but obviously wants to continue her "jog". It's an adorable little interaction.

Well, the big plot twist, surprise ending to my little neighborhood tale came about a year ago, when the Cheerleader & The Jogger happen to collide a few steps earlier than normal, giving me the opportunity to finally see his face... and it was none other than Bob, the crotchety looking Clint Eastwood of our block. I almost fell over.

I have to say that listening to The Cheerleader/Bob has been one of the best parts of my morning, and as silly & repetitive as he sounds, I sometimes wish that he would follow me around the kitchen, cheering me on, and telling me how great I look at 7am. I think we could all use someone like that, every now & then.

Sadly, it has been months since I've heard Bob's sing-song voice floating through our window, and was reminded of the fact this morning as I stumbled around the kitchen and saw him slowly walk around the corner. My guess is that his jogging friend moved away-- as I'm sure most of his friends have done over the years-- and that he has no one to cheer on as they fight their way through the morning. He looks a little less bright as a result, and I miss his encouragement, even if it wasn't intended for me.

I remember one morning Bob deeply apologizing to The Jogger for missing her the previous day. He explained that his son had called & wouldn't get off the phone in time for Bob to come to the corner. I don't know that she minded-- she might have been grateful for the uninterrupted lap around the block. But I do know that Bob needed someone to cheer on.

And I suppose we all do-- we need to clap & cheer for & compliment others just as much as we need a standing ovation every now & then. I think it sort of keeps us alive. It almost makes me want to take up jogging, just to give Bob someone to cheer for again.

Dear John Letter

We've all seen them: those turbulent on-again, off-again relationships, full of drama and passion and pain. It's the kind of relationship that outsiders shake their heads at and wonder "Why can't they just end it? They'd be so much happier." But from the inside, it's not so easy.

I discovered this recently, and for the last several months have been trying to extricate myself from a passionate love affair with food-- not completely, of course, and not forever. I've been writing a "Dear John" letter in my mind for a while now, that I seem to be unable to deliver. It goes something like this:

Dear Food: cheese, delicious desserts, all things fried, yummy & flavorful, spicy, rich, sweet and aromatic,

I need a break-- just some time apart. It's not you, it's me. I've tried to make it work, and I just can't right now. Please understand, and please don't whisper my name from the fridge anymore. I'm leaving now, and hopefully I'll see you again in August.
Deepest love, Christine

Unfortunately, this alien being living inside-- this little parasite intent on stealing my energy & health, and sometimes even my sane & rational thoughts & emotions-- is a jealous soul. Or maybe just a sensitive one. I try not to blame him/her, try to look forward to a day when all the nausea and issues will subside... try not to cry every time I see a block of cheese.

For now, I am settling into a bland marriage of energy bars, crackers, fruit, dry cereal, and other safe and wise choices. Occasionally, a pickle will saunter into my life and cause my heart to quicken, but only when security is lax.

This pregnancy thing is not for the weak of heart, however weak my stomach might be right now. But I keep pressing on, looking forward to Thursday, when we will get to hear the heartbeat for the first time. I imagine all will be forgiven then.

Little Peanut

[I apologize for my loooong absence. Explanation to follow...]

I woke up last night at 3am and lay in bed for at least a half an hour, resisting the urge to reach over & grab the crackers waiting for me on the night stand. When I finally succumbed, the noise of my crunching was similar to setting off land mines in a quiet library. Luckily, Chris didn't move.

At 4am, I caved, realizing that the crackers weren't going to cut it, and wandered into the kitchen to drink a fruit smoothie. It was like I was some giant marionette, and the "person" pulling the strings-- deciding when I sleep, when I eat, what I eat (& how much & how often), and when I want to throw it back up-- is a tiny little thing the size of a peanut.

Yep, you guessed it: I'm pregnant. Two months pregnant, to be exact. In fact, I just read that this week, our little peanut is developing eyelids, arms & legs (even elbows), the tip of it's nose, and (drum roll please), no longer has a tail. Excuse me? A tail? It's better to find out some things after the fact. I feel uncomfortable thinking that the little guy getting me up in the middle of the night to drink smoothies has a tail.

The story goes that earlier this summer, Chris & I were praying about going back to Uganda. Our original plan was to start a family after 5yrs of marriage, but going to Africa would mean postponing those plans for another year. At the time, neither of us really had any desire for children. Not that we have anything against kids, as an age bracket, we just aren't the type who coo over our friends' babies (cute as they are), or could even imagine having one in our lives. We were just so happy with life at that moment, exactly the way it was. We simply prayed that when the time was right, God would give us the desire for children. I was kind of afraid that that day might never come.

But then, sometime this Fall, I looked at Chris and thought about how much I loved him, and how amazing it would be to carry a part of him with me... and even one day look into someone else's eyes and see him. I'm not usually the gooey, romantic type, and the feeling was so out of the blue, I was pretty sure it didn't come from me.

We had one month to decide about Uganda, so we said "Sure, why the heck not?", and I looked into Natural Family Planning. As it turns out, those Catholics are very effective at fertility, and the very first month-- in fact, the day we had to give our decision about Africa, we found out that we were pregnant.

Now, I know that we are supposed to feel euphoria-- that joy & anticipation should be oozing out of every pore... but that didn't really happen. That's not to say that we were disappointed, either-- it was more like "Oh, wow! I wasn't really expecting that." Plus, it's really difficult to mentally translate two little pink lines on a pregnancy test into complete life-change and a small human. Even when the doctors & my own body confirmed it, it was really difficult to be ecstatic about having the stomach flu for 12 weeks.

To be honest, I'm not very good at discomfort. Yes, I willingly chose to live in a mud hut for an entire summer, but besides that little blip on the radar, I'm a bit of a wuss. I hate being sick, and tend to get a little whiny about the whole affair. After feeling miserable for about 2 weeks, and realizing that I only had another 10 to go (hopefully), was pretty disheartening. Plus, we wanted to tell our parents in person, so I felt like I had this dirty little secret we were keeping from everyone relating to my "illness".

I felt guilty about not being happier. I mean, some people would kill to be able to get pregnant (and my heart really does go out to them), and here I was getting pregnant on the first try. I tried pepping myself up by thinking of everything I was thankful for, and even reminding myself that I would probably have been sick in Uganda this summer, too-- only without a bed or running water.

But last night, as I lay awake, feeling a will other than my own forcing me out of bed, and whispering "smoooooothie", I couldn't help but smile. It was the first time I had ever really realized that there is someone else in there-- not just some little parasite stealing my energy & health, but something all it's own that I am holding.

I am still not at a place where I can imagine a tiny human-- our tiny human-- existing in this world and in our lives. But I do think that God is slowly starting to change my heart, bit by bit, and I still have plenty of time for a crazy, irrational worry-wart, mama-bear kind of love to blossom out of the little smile that came in the middle of the night.

A Life Without Cheese

There will probably be some serious intervention happening after I post this blog. I will probably get phone calls asking if I'm okay, if I hit my head, if maybe it's time for me to move out of this Hippie Town. It's like I don't even know who I am anymore-- like aliens abducted me, brainwashed me & inserted cantaloupe-seed-like pods into my skin (I actually sat next to a man on a plane once who experienced that-- but that's anther story).

Even as I write this, I fear for my own sanity, but here goes: I've gone vegan... and I love it.

Now, before you call the authorities, let me tell you that's it's just a temporary thing-- at least, it began that way... and knowing me, I probably will cave sooner rather than later.

It started off innocently enough: wanting to grow spiritually. Sounds noble, right?

I have always been terrible at fasting. First of all, food is a spiritual experience to me-- I am insanely passionate about it. I read cookbooks for fun on Saturday mornings, and baking sends thrills up my spine. Second of all, when I go even a few hours without eating, I will practically deny my faith and kill family members to get a hold of an energy bar. My blood sugar drops, my emotions go crazy, and I become Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Hyde. Fasting does nothing to bring me closer to God. I barely even believe in God when I fast. Gandhi would be most disappointed.

So when I had this epiphany about wanting to grow spiritually, I decided to try a different approach to fasting-- one more like the Jewish prophet Daniel, who ate only vegetables. That way I could still focus my mind & spirit, sacrifice something physical for the sake of something spiritual, and not even have to kill anyone around me. Brilliant.

The "Daniel Fast", as it is called, is essentially just being vegan-- something that people do all the time... and something that I have always scoffed at with a mixture of pity and judgment. A life without meat, I could handle. A life without cheese just isn't worth living. And when you cut out butter, eggs & chocolate, it sounds like my own personal hell.

But strangely, when Chris & I decided to embark on our Daniel Fast for 3-4 weeks, I was excited. Despite my love for chocolate, butter, cheese, and all things French, I also love vegetables... and fruit. I thought it would be nice to eat healthy for a few weeks-- to cleanse my body of all the rich food I eat, to fit into my jeans a little better, and especially (hopefully) to grow spiritually. The first night was hard. I looked in the fridge and wracked my brain for something to eat that didn't involve animal products. The next day, Chris & I took a trip to Trader Joe's, and the local market for produce. It's possible that we spend $160 in groceries that day. Don't tell anyone.

Filled with guilt, we stuffed our kitchen full of tofu, nuts, soy milk, soy yogurt, Cliff Bars, whole wheat pasta, and every kind of veggie known to man. We promised ourselves we wouldn't go shopping again for another month. And then I started cooking. And ladies & gentlemen, let me tell you: if this career as a Professional Christian doesn't work out, I'm becoming a hippie. I make a mighty fine vegan chef, if I do say so myself. Not only that, but I feel great.

Some magic switch flipped inside my brain, and I love being vegan. I don't even want sweets anymore. I do crave yogurt, and a little Parmesan cheese... and maybe some chicken broth-- but really, other than that, I could do this forever!

I know: you don't understand. I know: you think I've lost my mind. You probably even pity me a little but. You're probably concocting evil schemes to convert me back-- thinking through all the reasons why it's healthier to eat meat & all that. And don't worry-- I'm sure I'll cave in. But for now, allow me to live in my happy little hippie world, where vegetables are delicious, "milk" comes from a box, jeans fit great, and spirituality shoots up like soybeans.

Indecision

I can be terribly indecisive. Giant menus put me into a cold sweat, and that's after the trauma of choosing a restaurant, deciding whether to drive, bike or walk, and what to wear. There are four big yellow squares on the bedroom wall where I once tried out some paint swatches, became paralyzed at the thought of choosing one color for the entire room, and then left a three year (and counting) monument to my indecision.

Tonight I have a decision weighing down that is slightly more significant than choosing colors or ordering dinner. Tomorrow is the deadline to decide if I would like to repeat the toughest, most stretching & challenging (& possibly awful) experience of my life. Or another way of saying it could be that tomorrow I decide whether I get to live out a life dream & return to something I am deeply passionate about. It's funny how those things go together, isn't it?

There is something about the red dirt of Africa that just gets under your skin-- under your nails, in every little nook & cranny. You love it, you hate it; you can't wait to leave, you need to go back. It's beautiful & painful, makes you want to laugh & cry, scream & bury your head in the sand.

Should we go back? The question has been haunting us for months now, and tonight it seems to echo, demanding an answer. The reasons to go are compelling, heart wrenching, exciting, and all seem to line up. The reasons to stay are sensible, grounded, comforting and desirable.

When we set off a year ago to lead a group of squirrely college students into a refugee camp 30mi South of the Sudanese border, we were sure. We knew that God wanted us there, that we were following Him, and that whatever happened, we were doing the right thing. We said that we would never want to do something like that without the same assurance.

And here we stand, at the crossroads, waiting for the writing in the sky.

As I lay on the grass in the park today, praying for guidance, the wind blew the clouds into big arrow shapes-- pointing away from the City, and roughly in the direction of Uganda. So, I suppose that if we were looking for writing in the sky, that would be our answer... but somehow I don't feel entirely comfortable basing my decision on cloud shapes.

The question is: What do we do when the reasons are equally compelling both directions? We've prayed, we've fasted, we've sought direction, wisdom & guidance. We've searched our hearts & desires (which seem to flip flop about 3 times a day). Little coincidences pop up that seem like signs, situations seem to line up, but they are never definitive.

The feeling is not unlike standing at the counter of a restaurant, skimming the menu as the line piles up behind you. You know you have to make a decision, but nothing pops up. At that moment, I usually blurt out the first salad that my eyes lay hold of. As the line piles up, though, I feel strangely at peace. I've done all I can do, and although the decision is weighty, knowing that God brought us through the hardest experience of my life once before helps give me peace as I face it again.

The Swing of Things

I confess, I was actually a little bit jealous of all those people who had the flu this week. That's not to say that I actually wanted to feel miserable, but the weather was stormy and cold, and it was all I could do to keep myself from crawling back into bed... or laying on the couch with a box of kleenex, a pot of tea, and all three extended Lord of the Rings DVDs. Of course, as luck would have it, I did end up coming down with a cold on Friday (The nerve! Those germs could at least have had the decency to show up on a Wednesday), but had to push through and forgoe the cloudy day with Frodo.

It's not that anything was tragically wrong, or even overwhelmingly stressful, it was simply that initial push to get back into the swing of things. After traveling for two weeks, I felt a little bit like those cartoons with an Inbox piled to the ceiling, threatening an avalanche. And for some reason, it was just one of those weeks where life has lost it's sparkle and work felt lackluster. I would wake up in the morning, take an Airborne to fight off the cold that I wish I had, look at my To Do list and groan.

When you push-start a car, it's always those first few steps that are the hardest, working up momentum and getting things rolling. Not only has my week felt that way with work, but my thoughts seem to be congested in my mind, as well. For what feels like ages, I've been chewing on ideas & words, and have had so much to say that it all seems to get clogged on the keyboard. I've tried writing them down several times, only to get stuck and give up. So this is my first stab-- getting the ball rolling so that the keyboard doesn't get jammed.

Yesterday helped. Yesterday, I felt the clouds lift (quite literally) as we took the pup for a hike up in Mill Valley-- which is just as good as watching all three Lord of the Rings, because Mill Valley could double as a set for the movies. The base of the trail is dark and wet and mossy, and we followed a tiny stream back a bit into the forest. As we worked our way up, the sun peaked through, the leaves were changing colors, and Gavin dove headlong into bushes chasing after lizards (I swear, he's going to lose an eye one day).

Chris & I talked about the heaviness that seemed to be on both of us this week, and something about being out in the sunlight and breathing in the eucalyptus made everything seem a little more doable.

Even today, when the clouds rolled back in and my cold threatened to weigh me down, the air of that hike stayed on me. I had to fight for it-- work hard to keep the momentum going. I might have overdone it, too, because after riding our bikes to church , I thought I was going to pass out. But after spending the day making a giant pot of homemade chili (seriously, we're going to be eating this chili for weeks), and watching the dog swim in a pond at the park, I feel like I just might be able to face the coming week without pretending to call in sick.


That's not to say that I'm actually looking forward to Monday morning, but at least I've got the ball rolling.