Silencing the Sound of Sirens

The nerdiest part of me loved my title yesterday, The Sound of Sirens because it reminded me of someone who can't say their /l/ sound, saying the title of one of my favorite Simon and Garfunkel songs, "The Sound of Silence." Get it? "The Sound of Sirens." Sometimes I crack myself up. 

My goal yesterday was to try to silence the sound of the sirens that beg me to dash myself to bits on the shores of the kitchen sink while I eat a steady stream of chocolate chip cookies. So, in keeping with the siren song theme, I wrote a poem, sort of.

If you would indulge me further, I'm going to share my Ode to Cookies here, while tipping my hat to Simon and Garfunkel:

Hello, cookies, my old friend.

I hear your siren song again.

To the kitchen I was creeping,

I left my husband while he was sleeping,

and the sound that was planted in my brain

Still remains.

I must silence the song of sirens.

Life is good, my friends. It really is, even with this latest development of overindulgence in the eating department. Since moving to Illinois, I have married my best friend. Learned my way around our neighborhood, and downtown Saint Charles. Bought a car. Redecorated the living room and bedroom. And for me, the most amazing thing of all is, I have been getting seven to eight hours of sleep nearly every night. 

Anyone who knows my sleeping habits knows this is nothing short of a miracle. I thank Chuck for inviting me into this calm environment that allows me to go to bed each night feeling safe and loved, and allows my brain to shut down completely so that I can get a full night's rest.

Apparently, another thing I have managed to do, which falls so short of miraculous, is gain weight. Now, I have not subjected myself to the confirmation of the bathroom scale, as I avoid humiliation at all costs, but let's just say there have been hints that perhaps my appetite has been a little too hearty.

Just a couple weeks ago, I shared my blog post about "Ignoring the Scales." One of my readers responded that she never weighs herself, she just judges herself by how her pants fit, and knows she needs to make better choices if they start feeling tight. What a good idea, I thought.

Except. Well, since retiring several weeks ago, I've pretty much limited my wardrobe to pajamas and yoga pants, and occasionally, my favorite jeans, which happen to have a generous amount of Lycra in them, APPARENTLY. It's pretty easy for my pants to fit very well, no matter how I eat, if you know what I mean. I could probably gain a good fifty pounds, and still be able to slide those babies over my hips. So, perhaps the "see how my pants fit" idea isn't the best gauge for me. Not THOSE pants, anyway.

Just recently, Chuck and I were going for a winter morning's walk, and I wanted to wear my ski pants, knowing we would be traipsing through knee-deep snow behind our house. As I pulled my white ski pants up past my knees, they seemed to be catching on the fabric of my black tights. That must have been it; the silky smooth inner lining must have been creating friction with the sleek fabric of the tights. (I know what you're thinking; she just doesn't get it. Give me a moment. I'll catch up to you in just a sec.) I took either side of the zipper and pulled it together so I could zip my pants. The zipper seemed dull that day. It didn't zip right up like it had at the beginning of the season. And then, when I tried to fasten the waist, it hit me. UH-OH. MY PANTS ARE TOO TIGHT! 

I had to first attach the inner metal hook together before I could even get the snaps close enough to line up for closure. I could breathe once I got everything zipped and snapped, but just barely. After I donned my white ski jacket, and white slouchy hat, I was pretty sure I resembled the Michelin tire man.

I waddled to the kitchen where Chuck was putting on the last of his winter wear, and we headed out the door for some fresh air, and some much needed exercise. (My back has been killing me ever since I crammed as much as I could in my backpack when I flew from Salt Lake City to O'Hare. That heavy weight slung over my shoulder was all that was needed to irritate my old back injuries, and I've been icing and trying to stretch my back ever since.)

The two of us walked around our neighborhood, and then when my back started giving me fits, we headed home across the rotary park just behind our house, in search of cardinals. Unbeknownst to me, Chuck was taking pictures of me while I was taking pictures of the birds. 

Photo Credit, with some deep-seated humility: Chuck Bennorth
See the resemblance to the big, puffy white guy?

When I saw this picture later, I had a another "uh-oh" thought. "That backside is looking a tad wide, Missy." But I chalked it up to my bad habit of negative body image chatter, and reminded myself that Chuck told me he would love me no matter how much I weighed.

My body tends to do this, this fluctuation of weight, and I now cannot argue with the evidence that it is indeed time to get back on the wagon, and hop off of the never-ending chuck wagon. (No pun intended, Chuck. I mean the feeding frenzy has to end! I love my Chuck Wagon.)

No scale is needed for me to know that while I'm settling in to this new life, it's time to be fully present, address emotional issues, make better nutritional choices, and even though my back hurts, get back to a regular exercise routine. 

This week I've been taking time for reading, prayer, and reflection as part of my morning rituals. I've been opening up to Chuck about some of my concerns. We eat so differently, and I've been taking a "when in Rome" attitude, but honestly, how many Chicago-style pizzas and hotdogs can a girl eat, and still live to fit in her pants? 

I'm happy to report that yesterday went well. I know it's only one day, but I have to start SOMETIME. We celebrated Zack's twenty-second birthday last night, and while the guys enjoyed pizza and Portillo's famous chocolate cake, I ate my own home-cooked dinner, without dessert. Chuck was feeling bad that I wasn't eating something special, and offered to go anywhere I wanted to get something for me, if I weren't going to have what they were going to eat.

"Honey, I promise; I don't want pizza and cake. I will enjoy my meal tonight because today I have been in control of my eating, and that will feel better than any yummy food I can think of."

One day down, many more to go. I'm off for some meditation and reflection to reinforce my new approach.

NAMASTE!

The Sound of Sirens

Remember the EXERCISE IN SELF-CONTROL regarding the chocolate chip cookies last week? On that particular day, I did particularly well in resisting the temptation to eat even ONE cookie. I was strong. I triumphed over the cookies. I ignored the siren song. Mind over matter. I am woman; hear me roar.

It occurred to me yesterday, as I was baking cookies yet again, "for my husband" (A-hem. Yeah, I know. I think someone is kidding herself about the cookies, and perhaps, for whom she's actually baking, but I digress. Of course, I do. I digress all the time. It is what I do...)

As I was saying, it occurred to me yesterday that I was able to make chocolate chip cookie dough without referring to the recipe even once. Let that sink in for a moment. I have been in Saint Charles since December 24; seven weeks tomorrow. And in that time, I have made chocolate chip cookies so often that I no longer need to read the recipe. I have MEMORIZED it. Hmm...

We already established that my husband exercises extreme restraint when it comes to indulging in sweets, eating only one half at a time, so why have I found it necessary to buy the ingredients for the Best Chocolate Chip Cookie recipe every single week, and bake them, every single week? Well, "News Flash!' APPARENTLY, Chuck is not the only one eating these cookies.

I'm no math whiz, but let's say the recipe makes about 50 cookies. If Chuck eats two cookies per day, and that is actually more than his average consumption, that would mean that these delectable little cookies that I am making for "HIM" would last him a little longer than three weeks. Hmm...but I have to make them EVERY. SINGLE. WEEK. That means SOMEBODY is eating about three dozen cookies by herself in any given week, or about five cookies per day. 

Oh, lordy. It's worse than I thought.

Last night, I went downstairs after Chuck was asleep to do a little first aid on my finger. I needed to soak it in warm, salt water, and while I was in the kitchen, the siren song of the cookies called out to me. Chuck's little baggie on the counter had three cookies in it, and while I could have eaten them, and replaced them with new ones in the freezer, I decided to eat them, AND some from the freezer. I popped a couple more in the microwave to thaw them, and had my own little personal cookie festival in the kitchen while I was soaking my finger, unbeknownst to my sleeping husband. Or so I thought.

I tiptoed back to bed, trying to avoid the loud creaky spots on the stairs and in the hallway, but Chuck was awake.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, my finger was throbbing, so I soaked it for awhile," I said, hoping I didn't have chocolate chip cookie breath wafting across the pillows.

"I'm sorry. I hope you sleep well."

I should sleep fine, I thought. My tummy is full, and my finger feels better. Please don't ask me what took me so long, I thought. He didn't. We both fell asleep shortly after that.

Fast forward to this morning at breakfast. 

"Last night, when I reached out for you, you were gone, and then I heard the microwave go off. I thought that was odd."

"Yeah, I was downstairs soaking my finger in hot water," I said, wishing I could just leave it at that, but that is not my style, so I continued, "but I'm not going to lie. I used the microwave to defrost a couple of cookies."

"Oh, I figured you were heating up the water for your finger when you told me you had soaked it last night. You know, you could have helped yourself to my cookies on the counter," he seemed to be mulling things over in his mind, "unless you ate those, too."

"Well, if you MUST know, yes, I ate YOUR cookies, and then ate some FROZEN cookies that had to be thawed, which is why you heard the microwave go off," I continued, feeling my cheeks flush pink, "and then I replaced your cookies on the counter with new frozen ones." It sounded like so many more cookies when I had to explain it out loud. 

"I see," he said. 

What DOES he see? I wonder. Does he see a weak wife, with no self-control, who even eats cookies after she's brushed her teeth, and gone to bed? Does he see someone who can't even stay away from the cookies after discussing just one day ago, her resolve to do better? I know he doesn't see that. He is not one to sit in judgment on me, or anyone else for that matter. He just can't relate to my weakness around desserts. 

Cookies don't have a siren song in Chuck's world. They're simply cookies, a treat to be broken in two, and savored over a period of time, tasting the butter on his tongue, detecting the sugar melting in his mouth, and biting down on the soft chocolate chips. He has probably never downed a half a dozen cookies in one sitting in his whole, entire life. 

But I have. When the siren song begins, there is no savoring. There is only eating, quickly, one cookie, and while still chewing, reaching for another, and then another, and not stopping because I'm full because I eat too quickly for that handy little mechanism to kick in, but stopping when my brain engages, and I finally realize I have eaten much more than a serving, and I really must stop. (In case someone asks me how many cookies I just consumed. Better to have to admit to six, than say, a dozen, right?)

After reading Brené Brown's book Daring Greatly last year,  I resolved not to have shame be a part of who I am any more, but I have to admit, I was kind of embarrassed to admit out loud what I had done. 

I have never lied about eating more than my share of the cookies; just ask my mom, and I knew I wouldn't lie about the cookies last night, if asked, but man, I really hoped no one would ask. So, I'm owning that yes, I have had more than my share of the cookies. What am I going to do about that, now that it's out in the open?

I'm not looking for advice, friends. I know what to do. I have done it before, and I will do it again. I just have to find that little trigger inside that holds me accountable, that makes me show up in my life, and keeps me present long enough to be aware of my actions. 

Sunday, I started the conversation with my husband about WHY I seem to be eating more than I should. Chuck, while he cannot relate to it, tries to be very empathetic and understanding. I'm sure it seems so simple to him that if I want my pants to fit better, I simply need to cut back on my eating, and exercise a little more. That's what he does; it should work for me, too. Right?

Right. When I'm ready. I'm getting there. If being aware is the first step, I'm almost ready for the next one. Tomorrow is my day of reckoning. Not next MONDAY just because Monday is when everyone starts a diet, right? I'm starting tomorrow because I'm giving myself today to sort through the emotions behind my eating, and I'm going to commit to my best friend, and to you, that I'm going to get on top of this. Today, my job is to figure out how to silence the sound of sirens.

Delicious Deception (Denise and Chuck's Eggs-ellent Adventure: Part 2)

What am I going to do with my finicky eater? I joked earlier in my blog about MY BRAVE LITTLE TOASTER, referring to my husband and his distaste for all fruits and eggs, and most vegetables. By his own admission, Chuck is a "55 year-old with the eating habits of a four-year-old." I'm discovering his admission does not imply a desire to change the way he has eaten all of his adult life. 

Jessica Seinfeld (wife of Jerry Seinfeld) wrote a recipe book that I used "back in the day" called Deceptively Delicious. For you young moms out there, this book has so many creative ways to incorporate fruits and veggies in your child's diet. After I'd gotten the basic concept down, I passed my book along to a friend whose children were making meal prep difficult. 


Whenever Chuck hears the blender in the background of our phone calls during his commute after work, he suspects me of blending vegetables to be hidden in his dinner. I've considered joining forces with other moms of picky eaters to get more tips on adding veggies AND eggs to my recipes.

"You USED to eat eggs all the time," Chuck's mom chided when we were discussing his limited enjoyable foods list recently.

"I USED to, but I didn't like them," Chuck responded. He told me he was so relieved during the seventies the media reported that the cholesterol in eggs was bad for us. His mom stopped serving eggs for breakfast, and he rejoiced.

We've all seen the pendulum swing in the arena of dietary guidelines. Right now, eggs are getting a lot of good press, so I'm thinking SOME eggs on the menu wouldn't be a bad idea, but if our only source of eggs can be cake, we're both going to be in trouble! My diabetic husband, and I with my ever-present desire to weigh 20 pounds less, need to find a healthier way to eat eggs than chocolate cake and chocolate chip cookies!

I wonder if there is a way to hide eggs in something besides a CAKE. Hmm...I'll be spending some time on Pinterest in search of some good recipes. If I start with things I know he loves, like macaroni and cheese, and meat loaf, I may make a convert of him yet!

Am I still playing the part of Sam-I-Am? Yes, although less vocally, and with a little less enthusiasm these days.

"Would you like them here or there?

Would you like them anywhere?

Would you eat them in the house?"

Would you eat them with your MOUSE?

"Try them! Try them! 

And you may!

"Sam!

If you will let me be.

I will try them.

You will see."

Remember what happens next? The character LOVES green eggs and ham. He just had to try them. For this instance, I am hoping life will imitate art, but I'm not holding my breath. In the big scheme of things, we have more important things to think about than who eats what at our dining table. I love my picky eater, and will continue to do so, even if he only eats eggs in cookies and cake.

I Fell in Love with His Words

So here I am, happily married to a fellow WORD NERD, who captured my heart with his words. We connect in so many ways, but at our core, I would say that our love of words draws us closer together even more.

Chuck and I have Facebook to thank for our initial connection. We were in a common interest group with other singles, and I had posted a cartoon that sparked a conversation that we took to private messaging. We Clicked from the Beginning. Immediately, I was attracted to Chuck's use of words; he had an impressive vocabulary, was familiar with conventions of grammar, and he even knew how to spell. Be still, my heart.

When we met for the first time, it was in the Asheville airport in North Carolina. When Chuck took me in his arms, and I looked into his eyes that night, I said, "You are perfect. You are just what I thought you would be." 

You see, I had already fallen in love with his voice, his words, and who he was inside. Meeting him in person just confirmed everything I knew about him during the weeks we corresponded, talked on the phone, and Skyped.

At the end of that first week on a chilly Friday morning on a beautiful panoramic overlook in the Great Smoky Mountains of Tennessee, Chuck Bennorth asked me to marry him in a haiku. 

Next to you always,

this is my heart's true desire.

Will you marry me?

My mind raced to form the perfect haiku response, and my silence sent the wrong message to my sweetheart, and I could see his nervousness growing, so, exasperated, I finally told him, "I can't think of a haiku reply fast enough, but, of course, I will!"

We wrote our own vows for each other, working on them for the weeks before our wedding. CHUCK'S VOWS were so meaningful to me, knowing he had carefully chosen his words for me. MY VOWS were my best attempt to verbalize how I felt about this wonderful man, and my promises to make him my priority. We continue to write separately, and together, sharing our love through our words, spoken and written.

Throughout the 12 hours we are apart each day, I smile when my phone dings with various notifications. We exchange emails, Facebook messages, and texts. We play Upwords and Words with Friends, online word game apps that are on our phones. 

Chuck asks for a topic each day for writing, and he shares haiku and free verse poetry with me in our online journal we keep together on Evernote. We compose poems with our magnetic words on the fridge.

There is a composition notebook in which we write back and forth. Within the pages, we write words only for each other. Things too personal for anyone but us. There are affirmations, confessions, apologies, poetry, and through it all, a love that deepens with each and every word.

Both of us blog, but because Chuck is gainfully employed, and we'd like to keep it that way, he only writes in his occasionally, and I try to write each week day. His blog entries feel like gifts to me; he shares his point of view of our life and love with the world in his writing.

Our house is filled with books. There are bookshelves, of course, and also stacks of books scattered here and there. Each week, we go to the Saint Charles Public Library (Mama, aren't you proud?), and we bring home books about authors, poetry, and writing, and Chuck selects several books on tape to listen to on his long commute between home and work. 

I bought Chuck a book about haiku at Town House Book Store on one of my walks into town.

Words are the greatest gift to me. Texts, emails, letters, cards, poems, books; I love a gift that can be enjoyed over and over again. Whether the words are silly jokes or whispered secrets or serious conversations, when they are shared between word nerds like us, their significance grows.

I fell in love with his words; I fall deeper and deeper each day.

A Word Nerd Is Born

Words have been a siren song to me ever since I was little. Learning to read with Dick and Jane, in Up the Hill and Down, opened up a whole new world for me. I was that weird kid who loved phonics, learning the diacritical marks, and breaking down words to make sense of their meaning. My doodles involved writing words in bubble letters. 

My parents passed on their writers' genes to me. They both have written poetry. My mom has even written songs. They both articulate themselves extremely well. While Dad was a great joke teller, Mom could never quite remember punch lines, but they were both good story tellers. 

When I was little, I loved listening to the stories Mama told us on the couch, in the bed, or in the tent during rainy days at Buggs Island. She entertained us with all of the traditional fairy tales, and my personal favorite, Little Black Sambo. I was fascinated with his scarlet jacket, and his emerald green trousers. Mama was good at descriptive detail. 

Each week, mom took us to the Amherst Public Library, where I could choose a stack of books to take home. She would point out what a good bargain the library was. Our library card was free, and afforded us nearly any book ever written. 

How I longed for my very own books from the Scholastic Book order at school, though. Mama would set the flimsy colored newsprint flyer aside, and remind me that the next time we went to the library, we could look for the books I wanted. "You'll only read them once, and then you'll wish you had your money instead of a book you'll never read again," she would say. Sigh.

One time she let me order a book of my very own. The book I selected was The Wednesday Witch. I'm not sure I chose very well, but how I loved that book. It brought a smile to my face to discover it in my classroom when I became an elementary teacher a couple of decades later. 

As young girl, I loved reading The Bobbsey Twins books, and anything about horses. Misty of Chincoteague and Billy and Blaze were some of my favorite characters.

The only board game I have ever really liked is Scrabble. Please don't ask me to play The Game of Life, and if you make the mistake of asking me to play Monopoly, I may forget my manners, and go into rant mode about why that is the worst game ever in the history of the world.

We have Mrs. Scibal to blame for my fancying myself as a poet. My sixth grade English teacher marched me in to the principal's office to read the poem I wrote about our pony, DAPPLES. Was it a poetic masterpiece? No, not even close, but her encouragement meant everything to me during that awkward time of my life. My confidence as a writer grew from that small spark of praise.

In seventh grade, I even liked copying our vocabulary words with the definitions, and using them in a sentence. Much to my teacher's dismay, I found a way to work a horse into every single sentence. I took it as my personal challenge to keep the equestrian theme going all year long.

I couldn't wait to take a foreign language, and the only one available in junior high was Latin, so I took it. Who studies Latin at the age of 13? Um, I did. I took two years of Latin from Mrs. Bragg, biding my time until I could take French from Mrs. Ligon. French was the language of love; no one told me how impractical it was. I was simply in love with the romance of the romantic language. I even minored in French in college. 

I will read anything. Cereal boxes, magazines, self-help, fiction, non-fiction, Readers' Digest; I even attempted William Shakespeare's plays, for the heck of it, in college. A man in Chicago O'Hare airport just shook his head at my response when he asked me if I were reading the book for an assignment, or just for fun. 

I love words. They are the gifts that I treasure; my happy box is filled with my favorite things: the handwritten notes from my children, special notes from school children, the poetry and customized cards from my husband. I save these treasures in my happy box to read on days when I want to recall sweet memories.

My own words are a gift to myself. In writing down the feelings of my heart, and the events of my life, I have an opportunity to re-live each moment when I read my writing later. Between my words and my photography, I can live in the now fully, and enjoy those moments again later, any time I want. Words make me happy.

An Exercise in Self-Control

Let's play a game, "Two Lies and a Truth." I'll go first.

I want a cookie. 

I deserve a cookie. 

I need a cookie. 

Best Chocolate Chip Cookies Ever

Can you spot the truth? There are two glaring lies I tell myself all the time about what I need, and what I deserve.

The real truth is I deserve to be healthy and strong, and what I need is some self-control. I can want a cookie all day long, for all the good that will do me.

Why do I bake these little temptresses, you may wonder. Well, I am married to a wonderful man who exercises extreme self-restraint when it comes to desserts, and really, any carbohydrate. He is the one who DESERVES the Best Chocolate Chip Cookie Ever.

When we go to a restaurant for breakfast, he orders a meat skillet, biscuits, and sausage gravy, and the smallest number of pancakes allowable on the menu. He eats all of the meat, a half of the biscuit, most of the skillet, and then, to finish his meal, he spreads the dollop of creamy butter on one little portion of one single pancake, drizzles a bit of syrup on it, and eats a bite or two, and then pushes back the plates, and declares his breakfast perfect.

When I bake these delightful chocolate chip cookies, he takes two or three to work each week, and nibbles at them to make them last all five work days. There is always a baggie with a chocolate chip cookie waiting for him on the counter. After dinner each night, he breaks a cookie in two, and joyously eats his half a cookie to finish off his meal with a sweet.

A half a cookie? I know, right? Who DOES that? Chuck does that. It happens all the time. 

Then there's me. Once I start to eat a sweet, I eat it until it's gone. I can eat desserts; let me tell you. I know there are recommended serving sizes on packages. I'm with those who believe Oreo cookies are consumed by the sleeve.

So today, I sent Chuck a picture on his phone of the cookies that had just come out of the oven for him.

Our texting went like this:

"I still haven't had a cookie. I'm thinking there should be some sort of prize for that. Do you think Her Royal Highness would knight me?

"And if the Queen won't knight me, will you at least pretend to bow down to my exquisite self-control today?

"A little ooh-ing and ah-ing would be much appreciated."

"I will bow down for my queen, and her splendid self-control," he responded.

I continued, "I never know how long these moments will last. I'm trying so hard to follow your lead, but I don't think you know what it's like for your mouth to crave sweet, crunchy, chewy things all day long."

He suggested I have ONE, then lock the rest in a time-release cookie jar, a cute little gadget we'd recently seen on Facebook.

Time-Released Cookie Jar

"If only; the battle is hard for me."

"Be strong, Stuart." (His new mouse name for me.) "Even in Little Mouse there is much strength."

So, here I am, waiting the last hour before my sweet husband will begin his long commute home to me. I still haven't had a cookie. I'm still wanting one. But knowing he thinks I'm strong made me feel as though I were today. 

The cookies will be there later...in the freezer...for when I really think I'm ready to eat JUST one. Until then, I just better wait. This Little Mouse has much to learn about self-control.

Denise and Chuck's Eggs-ellent Adventure: PART 1

I feel like Sam-I-Am from Dr. Seuss's book, Green Eggs and Ham when it comes to getting my husband to try different foods. I don't want him saying, "That Sam-I-Am! That Sam-I-Am! I do not like that Sam-I-Am."

But seriously, how can he hate eggs? Not only am I trying to get him to try eggs (at least they're not GREEN), I want to find ways for him to enjoy fruits and vegetables. 

"Do you like fried eggs and ham? 
I do not like them, Sam-I-Am.
Would you like them here or there? 
I would not like them ANYWHERE. 
Would you like them boiled or fried? 
I would not like them; I have tried."

Want to see Chuck's serious side? Just mention eggs.

Chuck hates eggs. Let me rephrase that. Chuck is very picky about his eggs.

When I first met Chuck, we often discussed our favorites: books, movies, foods. I was surprised at how limited he was in the foods he liked. When I asked him how he liked his eggs, he replied, "Preferably, in a cake." 

It wasn't long after that little joke was made that I stumbled upon this little gem on Pinterest:

How do you like YOUR eggs?

I like them just about any way they come. I will eat them scrambled, fried, boiled, and although I don't recall ever having them poached, I bet I'd like them that way, too. Eggs are great in quiches, frittatas, and breakfast casseroles. Yeah, I'll eat them here or there. I will eat them anywhere. 

There's not a bad time to eat eggs. While they are a perfect breakfast food, eggs are wonderful at lunch and supper, too. A boiled egg is a handy snack that packs a powerful protein punch. I will eat them hot or cold. I will eat them when I'm old.

My husband is the unreformed version of the egg-hating character in Green Eggs and Ham, I'm afraid. Not only does Chuck not like "green eggs and ham," he doesn't like regular eggs, either. Actually, the ham, he likes. Just don't be trying to put any eggs with it, green or otherwise.

THE END.

Not really. You and I both know there is going to be more to this story. Tune in NEXT WEEK for the ongoing saga of...

Denise and Chuck's Eggs-ellent Adventure!

My Brave Little Toaster

Compromise is the name of the game when it comes to relationships. A little give; a little take. While Chuck and I are alike in so many ways, it is uncanny; there are some ways we are different. Our pace; I'm distractedly frantic, and he is deliberately calm. Our taste in music; he loves all things classical, and music that never has had words (so grocery store muzak does not count), and I love instrumentals (guitar and piano), but not necessarily classical, and an eclectic collection of music ranging from indie to country to folk to pop. 

He looks so innocent; my 55-year-old with the
eating habits of a four-year-old.

Our taste in tastes; oh, yes, the way we approach food is worlds apart. Chuck is cautious; I am adventurous. Chuck has never met a fruit he liked; I love them all. He hates eggs; I will eat them any way they are served, although the harder the yolk, the better. He is suspicious of most vegetables; I will eat them all, but I would prefer not to partake of broccoli, if other options are available.

As a child, I detested watermelon, but have tried it every year, in case my tastes changed, and whaddayaknow? Two years ago, I had watermelon salad, and loved it!

When I told Chuck about my watermelon experience, I think he thought I was quite brave, but mostly nuts. He sticks with what he knows he likes. "If it ain't broke, don't fix it" seems to translate into "If I know I don't like it, there's no sense in trying it again" for him. 

He adores carbs; carbs with heaping amounts of butter. Chuck is a carnivore, a carbivore, and a VERY selective herbivore (that "herb" list includes peas, green beans, and, occasionally, carrots. That's it. Don't bother asking.) I am an omnivore; I'll eat anything once, and I'll overeat anything I love, given the chance, and I tend to eschew fats.

Enter diabetes into Chuck's equation, and I have my hands full with meal-planning for us. Limiting carb intake without introducing veggies into a meal makes this harder. I love having variety in our menus. I use Chuck's favorite veggies, corn and peas more as a garnish since they're higher in carbs.  Consequently, we buy the only other veggie he will eat, canned green beans, in bulk.

Cooking for finicky eaters is not new to me. I'm a mom, after all, but my previous picky diners were toddlers, not grown men. I am "cooking for a 55 year old with the dietary habits of a four-year-old." Chuck's phrase, not mine. That is my challenge, according to my husband. 

"I will try to be a brave little toaster" he said, when we discussed recipes I wanted to make for him. I admire his courage. Many middle-aged men are set in their ways. Chuck realizes he is picky, and is willing to overcome some of his aversions to certain foods.

Photo Credit: spencer93.deviantart.com

During our honeymoon, while dining at the Calamari Café, a fine Italian restaurant, Chuck took a very tiny spinach leaf off my plate, and with raised eyebrows, and a very silly grin, said, "Look at me. Look at me." Yes, he managed to eat one leaf. I was sort of amazed. 

Encouraged by his attempt at trying a food he previously detested, I wondered what else I might try to introduce more vegetables into his meals. 

My first attempt was a Shepherd's Pie dish which substituted mashed cauliflower for the mashed potatoes. Being a brave little toaster, Chuck agreed to try it, and guess what? He LIKED it! We both prefer the dish with a blend of potatoes and cauliflower, so that's how I prepared it the next time, but hey! He's eating something besides green beans!

Last night I made a lasagna-like dish, and needed more sauce. What to do; what to do? I thought I might sneak in some diced tomatoes. If I turned the lights off, and lit some candles, he might be none the wiser. 

Ha! After he was done, and had proclaimed more than once that dinner was delicious, I admitted my sneakiness. He still liked it, but when he went back for seconds, he picked out a couple of the more obvious offenders, and with a good natured grin, put the diced tomatoes on my plate.

"I was a brave little toaster to eat tomatoes. They were barely noticeable. I ate them, and I didn't complain."

This morning, I made him a chocolate protein shake with spinach "hidden" in it, if one can actually hide a vegetable that turns a chocolate drink a ghastly shade of greenish brown. Again, with dimmed lights, and glowing candles, I presented my fussy eater with another opportunity for courageous dining. Again, he offered raised eyebrows and nervous laughter. 

"If you drink this protein drink, I will reward you with the leftover breakfast skillet from Sunday." He LOVES breakfast skillets, as long as no eggs are present.

He took two sips of the spinach concoction, and said, "I was a brave little toaster again. I tried it." Two sips, and he was done, but I have to admit, for a self-professed four-year-old when it comes to food, he has already tried much more than I thought he would. No whining. No tantrums. He has been pretty brave for such a cautious eater. 

Now, how am I going to sneak eggs into his diet? (Insert maniacal laugh here.) We'll see just how brave my little toaster is one of these days. 

Be brave, little toaster. Who knows? You might even like them!

Dondé Esta el Amor?

Amor Latino has been playing on Spotify all morning. I just couldn't have a repeat of another day like yesterday. Yesterday was a day of slothfulness. I feel I am quite competent to JUDGE the lack of accomplishments, but I have yet to master the art of doing nothing. I think that will require being able to do nothing with grace, and without judgment. 

When I saw myself on the Skype screen while chatting with Chuck during his lunch break, I raked my fingers through my hair. I'd waited too long to use the hair dryer, so my baby fine hair was flat and uncooperative when I finally got around to trying to fix it. "My hair looks like a really bad wig today," I complained. 

This morning, I decided to revisit the genre of Latin music as part of my DISCOVERY. My sister-in-law Cristina says when she puts on her favorite Latin music, she can get her housework done while she dances. I figured it was worth a chance. 

I haven't done any dancing, but I have accomplished more in a couple of hours than I did all day yesterday! The music got me thinking of the few Spanish words I know, and I wondered if I could write a poem with my limited Spanish. I've never been good at knowing where the accent marks go, so I used Google's translator to help me write this little poem, with credit to Pablo Alboran, who has a song by the same title, although after running Pablo's song through the translator, I think something may get "lost in the translation." What is a beautiful love song in Spanish becomes a somewhat comical use of poorly worded phrases with the "help" of the translator. 

So, at the risk of presenting a comical poem of my own, here is my poem in Spanish, dedicated to Chuck. My husband speaks more Spanish than I do, so I hope he can read between the lines to find the love there for him.

¿Dónde Está el Amor?

¿Dónde está el amor?

Aquí; aquí lo tienes,

El amor está aquí, 
en nuestras palabras,

y en nuestros corazónes,
y donde quiera que vayamos.

Abrázame.

Bésame.

Abrázame.

Dime que me amas, también.

El amor está aquí, 
en nuestras palabras ,

y en nuestros corazónes,
y donde quiera que vayamos.

I Am Home, at Last

Finally, our house is mine, too. Is that an odd thing to mention? What's the hold up, you may wonder? It has nothing to do with legal matters like titles or deeds. It's simply this: our house now smells like home to me. I have pretty sensitive olfactory nerves, perhaps to make up for my deficit in the hearing department, and when I first arrived, my nose was shocked at how different Chuck's house in Illinois smelled than mine in Utah. 

In my blog, I have explored the topic of THE SCENTS OF HOME before. My children and I all enjoy life's sensory pleasures; Sierra and I drool over extremely soft fabrics, and my sons and I love the delicious smells of home cooking and fresh laundry. We all enjoy good music, although our definitions vary somewhat, and we all love the scenery that nature affords our eyes when we're hiking.

For nearly two decades, Chuck has only shared his home with his three boys, and I'm sure the occasional presence of the females in his life. So there were scents, just nothing my nose picked up as familiar. Our homes are stocked differently, with different cleansers, hand soaps, and laundry detergent. 

Don't misunderstand; his house is extremely tidy; he is fastidious about his routines, and he had recently completed his own version of BECOMING A MINIMALIST in anticipation of my arrival. He had mopped and dusted, but the contrast of his clean house smell versus mine was stark.

One odd thing about me is I don't just want things to not stink, I want them to smell GOOD. My goal has never been to achieve a neutral smell. I love my Marc Jacobs perfume, my Bath and Body Works candles and soaps and lotions, my Tide and Downy, and the seasonings I use in my cooking: cinnamon, cumin, garlic, onion, and basil. When I bake bread and cookies, my nose delights in the warm yeasty and sweet smells that emanate from the oven. When I walk outside in the early morning, I love to smell the warm scent of dryer sheets coming from the vents of my neighbors' homes intermingling with the camping smells of wood stoves and fireplaces.  

Chuck kept asking me if anything has surprised me since arriving in Saint Charles, and I kept telling him no, because frankly, I didn't know how to bring up the fact that I am weird about fragrances. We are very different in this sense because Chuck's sense of smell is so weak. He doesn't notice pleasant OR unpleasant scents. My nose has always been keenly aware of odors, which can be a good thing, or a very unpleasant thing, depending on the situation.

Good fragrances, obviously, are sweet and savory spices, nice cologne, freshly mown grass, suntanning oil, the earth after rain, garlic and onion simmering in butter, and new baby smell. Bad odors? Oh, dear. Well, damp basements, body odor, poopy or urine-soaked diapers, wet ash trays, cat poop, sheep's wool, house fires (not to be confused with the smoke of a cozy fire in the fireplace), and smoke damage after house fires extinguished with water come to mind.

When I became a mother, I noticed how territorial I was about my little ones. My babies rarely had to sit long in a wet or dirty diaper; the smell seemed so strong to me. Doing laundry has always been a pleasant experience to me, and washing all of the tiny baby clothes in Dreft detergent and drying them with Downy dryer sheets was euphoric for me. I would have been devastated if they'd been allergic to my choice of laundry products. My children always laughed with delight when I emptied the laundry basket of warm clothes fresh from the dryer over them.

I can remember nuzzling my sweet little Sierra when I picked her up at the babysitter's, and how shocked I was to breathe in the very different odors that had been gathering in the fabric of her clothes while she was away from me. She smelled of Italian marinara, a faint cigarette smell, and other scents that made me wrinkle my nose. I couldn't wait to get her home, and bathe her and slather her skin with Johnson's Baby lotion, and then dress her in the clothes that smelled like our family, and smell the sweet baby fragrance I associated with my little ones.

So when I arrived at Chuck's house, I knew it would take some time to "mark my territory," metaphorically speaking. One of the first things I did after our first trip to the grocery store on Christmas Eve was make a potpourri of oranges, cinnamon, apples, and pumpkin pie spice, and simmer the fruity, spicy concoction on the stove. Unfortunately, the pot boiled itself dry, and a thick, black smoldering crust was stuck to the bottom of the pan by the time the smoke reached my nose. One step forward; two steps back. 

Photo Credit: Chuck Bennorth

Chuck helped me rid the house of the smokey smell as quickly as possible by turning on the large ceiling vent upstairs, and we opened windows and doors. I moved the offensive smelling pot out to the garage, and began again to establish some yummy smelling fragrances in the house, lighting the candles we had just bought, and baking some peanut butter cookies. 

Days went by, and each time we returned home, I would take in a tentative breath, and realize the house still had a fragrance not familiar to my nose and me. 

And then one day, one wonderful day last week, after going out to lunch with Chuck's folks, I threw open the door to the house, and my nose was pleasantly surprised to smell the scents of home, OUR home. All of the scents of Colgate toothpaste, our deodorants and colognes had mingled with the smells of home-baked cookies, scented candles, citrus hand soap, Old English furniture polish. Everything had combined into one warm fragrance that to me represents all of the comforts and delights of home.

I am home, at last. It smells so good to be home.