Household Blog

Other than posting all gluten free recipes, I don’t tend to talk much about being gluten free. Mostly that’s because so many other lovely people have done so already, and very well. Even most foodies who can eat gluten know about Shauna from Gluten Free Girl, who has written extensively and thoughtfully on the topic, and just this week I came across this post on Michael Ruhlman’s blog, in which he interviews Carol Blymire on what it means to have Celiac—her description of the symptoms are pretty evocative, and I had a gut-level cringe factor and belly laugh going at the same time. I’ve been there. As a semi-non-sequitur, I want this t-shirt. But here goes: my (brief and annotated) story:

I am what I call “undiagnosed Celiac.” Translated, that means that we pretty much know that’s what made me sick for a decade before I stopped eating gluten. On top of Carol’s laundry list of delightful symptoms, when I first began to develop Celiac at age 18 or 19 (long before we knew what it was), I was a freshman in college, eating meals at the cafeteria, which meant all food was served on bread, in bread, topped with croutons, or over pasta. When the symptoms began to hit, they hit like a wrecking ball, and my body’s reaction? I stopped eating. I became anorexic—not anorexia nervosa, in which a person is trying to lose weight, but anorexia, in which I just couldn’t eat. I averaged a bowl of oatmeal in my dorm room each day. Just walking by the cafeteria, the smell of the food would make me nauseous.

Well, I at least made the connection then that cafeteria eating was not the way to go. I starting cooking more foods for myself, or buying premade health foods at the natural foods store. It got better-ish, but I never got well. I got used to running at extreme highs and lows of energy, having awful bouts of diarrhea, I experienced many times the mad dash for the bathroom. I also remember the weird rashes, headaches, horrible mood swings, joint pain. I got used to being ill. For ten years.

Then I met a lovely woman who happened to have Celiac. We became friends, and one night, over a bottle of wine and some lovely gluten free homecooking in her kitchen, I told her about my experience, starting with the anorexia and depression, straight on through a recent experience of falling apart in the middle of Lowes after eating a couple pancakes for breakfast. This wonderful person made the connection, thanks be to the PTB, and said, “Hmmm. That sounds a lot like what I went through before I was diagnosed. Maybe you should try being gluten free?”

I set a date—May 1, 2007—to start my gluten free regimen, giving myself a couple weeks to replace pantry items and educate myself. And then I jumped in with both feet. Luckily I had a guide who helped me find the best products, and then I re-taught myself how to cook. May 1, 2007, was the first day of my life as a well person.

After a few months, I talked to my dad the doctor about how to get an official diagnosis. He asked, “How do you feel now?” I said, well, I don’t feel sick (insert laundry list of complaints here). He said, “Well, if you really want to confirm that you have Celiac, you just have to start eating gluten again, get sick again, and run a test that your insurance won’t cover. Or you could just keep doing what you’re doing.” I love my dad. He’s pragmatic.

So that’s what I did. I got used to being well, and after being well for a while, my body started to talk to me again, started to trust me again. It started to tell me what felt good, what it craved, what it wanted to avoid. My mind and body reunited, became this power-house team, helping each other, talking to each other, partnered to learn how to live/cook/eat/exercise as well as we could. It’s thrilling to not see your body as the enemy.

There are still times when I get sick with the flu or eat a bad meal or push myself too hard at the gym, and I will begin to gripe at my body, but it doesn’t last long—I quickly remember what my body went through for so long, that now it talks to me, that now it’s unusual to be sick, it stands out rather as the exception rather than the norm or just  “worse than usual.” My body is my long lost friend, found again.

Slainte.

The time has come to make an introduction. Last November, I met a very special person. In January of this year, we started dating. Two weeks ago, at twilight in the middle of our newly planted orchard, he asked me to marry him. I said, “Of course.”

This is Damon. He’s the best man I’ve ever met. But don’t just take my word for it. Rowan thinks he’s pretty fabulous, too.

And Damon’s dog Bane seems pretty happy about his new digs.

And Sera, true to form, generally just tolerates us all.

You’ll be hearing from Damon from time to time on the household blog; in fact, his recipe for stuffed peppers is coming soon—I’ve taste-tested a few versions, and i can verify their yum factor!

In the meantime, know that we are thrilled and excited and generally walking about three inches above the ground. Antoine de Saint-Exupery said, “Love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction.” Now, in the throes of being newly engaged and very much in love, I admit there’s a fair amount of gazing going on. But what makes me feel strong and confident in our current state of doe-eyed bliss is that we’ve found in each other an equal partner who wants the same sort of life. I’m looking forward to walking this long and winding path together, enjoying the scenery, adventures, and experiences that much more for the warmth of his hand in mine.

Welcome home.

The Purple House site is getting a facelift this weekend. For the sake of easy updating, cleaner visual design, and general house tidying, the site may be a bit scattered for the next couple of days. Please be patient, and wish me luck!

Happy day!

Anna

When I was fifteen I was passionate about folk music and angry at the world. I was angry at social injustices and centuries-old guilt that had nothing to do with me but still haunted my bleeding heart. I was angry about the damage done to the environment, about which I felt powerless to do anything. I was angry about feeling hurt and weak and guilty and impotent in the face of so much…bullshit. And it probably goes without saying, but fairly often I was angry at my parents.

A favorite teacher at my high school kindly described all this rage as “teenage angst.” Angst! What a perfect word! The “ahhhhhh!” sound, open-throated out only to be choked off by an awkward gaggle of consonants tangled up trying to get through the door at the same time, all knees and elbows. Yep, angst. That about sums it up.

Today, I was reminded today of this angsty period, fortunately with more of a sense of humor than I had at the time. I had dated a boy, the first boy I ever dated in fact, and oh, if I’d known the warning signs then – this boy was a die-hard Republican, conservative to his bones, a fundamentalist hellfire sorta guy, and besides being my polar opposite in every way except age, he loved to get me riled. (I’ve observed this as a recurring pattern over the years. I now recognize it – the people who like to poke at you and laugh when you get mad. I double dog dare you to laugh at me now! *grin*) Knowing how I worshipped at the funky patchwork shrine of Bob Dylan and all his folksy retinue, my boyfriend relished playing that Cracker song that goes, “What the world needs now is another folk singer like I need a hole in the head.” And then that red rage would rise, my cheeks would burn, my eyes would flash, and he’d laugh his scrawny boy butt off.

What was I thinking? This question, by the way, has also been a recurring theme as years go by.

So I was reminded of that today. My mom lent me a book recently. I think my mom and I sometimes speak to each other in books. It’s like a subtle code: “I want you to understand me. Read this. This rings true. Please understand.” Each book shared and opened, more than just a book opens. So my beautiful, patient mother lent me Traveling Mercies by Annie Lamott, and I have been thoroughly enjoying it. It’s a very humorous, wry, and heart-full collection of stories and memoirs from a hilarious, tough ol’ softy kind of dame, dancing around issues of faith and spirituality. I’m not Christian myself, but I am deeply spiritual, and I think my mom knew that I would “get it.” And I do. And I love it, and I love that she shared it with me, and I love what it says about her. It’s passed the great reading test—even when reading it in public, I still get misty-eyed at moments or laugh out loud.

So about two-thirds of the way through the book, this poem by Nanao Sakaki appears:

In the morning
After taking cold shower
—–what a mistake—–
I look at the mirror.

There, a funny guy,
Grey hair, white beard, wrinkled skin,
—–what a pity—–
Poor, dirty, old man!
He is not me, absolutely not!
Land of life
Fishing in the ocean
Sleeping in the desert with stars
Building a shelter in mountains
Farming the ancient way
Singing with coyotes
Singing against nuclear war—
I’ll never be tired of life.
Now I’m seventeen years old,
Very charming young man.

I sit down quietly in lotus position,
Meditating, meditating for nothing.
Suddenly a voice comes to me:

“To stay young,
To save the world,
Break the mirror.”

This was a “woah” moment. I’ve been studying herbalism for over a year now, which led me to permaculture and to ayurveda, which led me back to yoga and meditation, all of which led me to a much deeper understanding and compassion to my own pains and patterns, joys and strengths, and the humility of seeing the road to wisdom disappearing into the distance ahead.

Now I’m laughing at myself for getting so ridiculously riled about that Cracker song lyric. I actually find myself in agreement: “If you want to save the world, shut yer mouth!”

The poem’s last phrase, “To stay young, / To save the world, / Break the mirror!” That’s the commandment. Don’t live in negatives—don’t spout invectives, don’t let rage be your food, don’t let your present life and work waste away for want of nourishment while your soul is mourning things on the other side of the earth: BE PRESENT. Here and now, live in affirmation. Rather than talk about injustice, practice justice. Do something. Live: build create nourish strengthen grow teach learn inspire breathe and be.

A while back, another great teacher told me to make wise choices, because I might be the only bible some people ever read. I still believe in the spirit of that advice. Every choice we make in our worlds matters. Every dollar we spend is a vote. Every bit of love we put into the world, every song we sing, every rift we mend, everything that we learn and teach and learn again—it continues outward, weaving in, passing the thread hand to hand, rippling out until our one tiny moment has touched people in places and times that we will never know ourselves. Our present, our presence, every minute act—positive or negative—has great power. It colors the threads we spin. It stains the fingers of every other person who touches these threads, blending with their own colors, passing on and on and on, under and over and under again.

We are so powerful. Wield with care.

Breaking the fast.

What an experience. Today got intense enough that I’ve decided to break fast a day early. It’s the right time. And since I’m breaking the fast, I can talk about FOOD again! I can smell it simmering in the kitchen as I type. When coming off a fast or any other stringent diet, it’s important to do so gently. Since I’ve been on a liquid fast, my goal is soft super-nutritious foods. I’m making a soup with a homemade bone broth base for protein and CALCIUM, with some small pieces of chicken in it as well, soft-cooked veggies (carrots, sweet potato, celery), a happy blend of balancing spices, a handful of sprouted beans, and (YAY!) sprouted quinoa. Oh, and mushrooms. And fresh ginger. Okay, I think that’s it. So it’s boiling to a lovely soft consistency while I try not to eat my own hand.

And of course small portions to start. Earlier I was trying to convince myself that I should break my fast with ice cream. But good sense won out *grin*

So a last assortment of insights and tips.

1. Expect that you will be a bit of a space cadet, and try to prevent stumbles. For example, my cat played the April Fool’s trick on me this morning of locking me out of the house at 5:00 a.m. No fun.
2. Don’t drink the lemonade right after brushing your teeth. Blech.
3. Rest when you need to rest. Sleep was harder than normal for me. Go with the flow.
4. And lastly, once more, because it always bears reiteration, LISTEN TO YOUR BODY. Do what you need to do, and don’t push it. This isn’t a competitive sport.

Bon appetit!

My kingdom for a straw. One thing I’ll say, I really don’t care much for the taste of the cleanse lemonade. I’m not a big fan of lemonade to start with, and the cayenne kick? Not so much. But I have friends who love the taste. Guess I’m just lucky. But yes, it occurred to me today that a straw would generally make this stuff more drinkable, and since the cayenne tends to settle a bit to the bottom, it’d also help for stirring it up while you’re drinking.

Normally I talk endlessly about food. Now all I have to discuss are the nuances of master cleanse lemonade. I’m going to be a happy girl this weekend—culinary freedom! So the plan is to break my fast Friday evening. Originally I’d thought to break it Saturday morning, but my growing experiences tell me Friday evening might be easier on my system. And here’s why.

This morning, getting up was harder, my energy was slower to rise, and I’m a morning person, so that’s definitely strange for me. However, once I was up I was definitely wide awake. But. When I went to drink my first cup of the day, I realized that the chugging method doesn’t work so well when you’ve been all night without anything in your stomach. So tomorrow morning, I’ll be sipping a bit more slowly until my stomach is “primed” for the day. No big deal, just felt a little bit nauseous, but I just sat with it, and it passed within five or ten minutes.

This morning’s slow start helped drive home another point: help yourself out in advance. It probably goes without saying, but make your lemonade the night before. Set out your clothes for the next day. Put gas in your car before you need it. Anything to cut yourself a bit of a break the next day.

My energy (once I got going) was still really high today, and the clarity of the senses continues. The body-awareness definitely intensified. It’s like I’ve been talking on a bad phone line all this time, and suddenly the static has lifted and I can hear my body so well. Pretty amazing. I did some very light cardio, just a mile or so of brisk walking, which felt great, and followed that later in the day with some gentle stretching.

As far as mindset, I feel very sharp and intense—yes, yes, I mean more intense than usual. Socializing is harder day by day, and brain to mouth filter is virtually non-existent. Once more I reiterate, no business meetings (thank you Kate). Frankly, I’d prefer to just have a whole week by myself next time I do this, just so I could be more fully present in the process and not distracted by work, friends, family, etc.

Oh, and ha! One more little bit of info: if you should decide to fast and use a laxative tea to help with flushing your system, only drink one cup, at least to start. Take my word for it :)   I got the Traditional Medicinals Smooth Move tea blend (I love their teas) and they said to drink before bedtime, no more than 3 cups a day. I drank two cups before bedtime. I was up every two hours. Too much information?

So I think that’s all I got for now. I’m going to go sit in the sunshine, read a bit, and go to bed early. Even earlier than usual. Two more days.

Day two of my fast is almost done, and I’m still alive!

Today I had my herbalism class, which was a blessing. Being engaged in something I find fascinating really helps one not to obsess over not eating. In the afternoon, we went on a short hike to look at the plants bursting forth enthusiastically. It was a beautiful day for it: golden light, a clean warm breeze, the brilliant new green of eager young leaves stood dramatically out against the gray and taupe and beige of the trees, the reddish crunch of fallen leaves, and the blue, blue sky.

I found that walking was very comforting for me. I don’t think I’d have the energy to do anything very strenuous, but just low-impact walking, or stretching, or yoga, it just feels delicious. It seems like I can feel more of my body, and my vision and hearing and (tauntingly) sense of smell all seem sharper. And although I find it more difficult to focus on one thing, like writing this post for instance, I find it remarkable how many things I can observe at one time, like living in wide lens, hearing, smelling, noticing things that normally I would have tuned out or missed entirely.

Still not having a big problem with hunger, though as a foodie I’m certainly missing the comfort and joy of cooking and eating, one of my favorite creative outlets. But I’m redirecting that energy toward the wonderful things I intend to prepare when my cleanse is over.

And my energy is still very good, in fact I seem to be more energetic than normal, which I didn’t expect. There are moments when I want to sit down and rest, but not in a sleepy way—more in a managing-my-energy-resources sort of way. Last night I was even surprised that I was still wide awake when I went to bed and had to meditate a bit to get to sleep.

So in summary, still going strong, definitely feeling shifts in awareness within my body. Walking and stretching are very soothing and lovely activities. Focused activities like reading, not so much.

More tomorrow!

Each spring, along with a thorough house cleaning, I like to do a thorough spring cleaning for my body as well, flush out the toxins and cobwebs of the past year. Not only do I find that this leaves me feeling refreshed and energized physically, but I think it helps me process things emotionally as well; muscle memory isn’t only about remembering movement patterns—our bodies store emotional experiences as well.

For the past few springs, spring cleaning has meant a strict raw foods diet in combination with additional fiber and supplements. However, this past year has been a doozy for me, and my mind and body both have been yearning for a deep cleanse. In a recent herbalism class, we learned about the “master cleanse” system and I’ve decided to give it a whirl this spring. Although most references suggest doing this cleanse for 10 days, my goal is five days, although I’m going to listen to my body in case I need to alter my plans—I’m not an ascetic, after all. Also, since I’m not really trying to lose weight, I followed the advice of Elson Haas’ article on the topic and increased the amount of maple syrup in my blend. See the recipe below, and my notes of the first day of my spring detox.

Master Cleanse Recipe (64 oz. – a full day’s batch)

2 quart Mason jar or other container
12 T. fresh-squeezed organic lemon juice
6 T. organic maple syrup (I used 9 T.)
½ t. cayenne
Pure filtered or distilled water

In your 2-quart jar, add the lemon juice, maple syrup (suggestions range from 6 to 12 tablespoons), cayenne. Add distilled water (about 60 ounces) till jar is full. Shake well to mix, and re-shake it every time before serving (otherwise the cayenne sinks to the bottom). This makes 4 pint servings—I have opted to have an 8 oz. cup of the lemonade eight times a day, about every two hours, to curb my cravings. Another consideration is that the lemon juice can be hard on your teeth, so you may want to opt for drinking your servings all at once at your “meal” times, rather than sipping constantly all day.

Other than the lemonade mix, it is suggested that one drink filtered water and herbal teas or laxative teas.

So here am I on Day One. Strangely, the hunger isn’t a huge issue—the craving for food is certainly there, but it’s not that debilitating “I’m starving!” belly pang. The cup serving every three hours seems to be working to keep me from getting too antsy for sustenance. My physical energy seems pretty good, I thoroughly enjoyed some deep stretching earlier and relished a feeling of being intensely grounded and present in my body. That said, even writing this post is a bit challenging—although I have a wonderful body hum and my sense of sight, smell, and hearing got more clear and pronounced as the day wore on, I think I’ve gotten so grounded in my body that my brain is a little spacey, and both my body and mind seem to be sort of floating through the day, rather than being direct and driven as they are normally wont to be.

So first day’s notes: Make sure you have plenty to do, but nothing requiring deep analytical thought, nor anything too physically demanding. Stretching is delicious. Music is lovely. I’m planning to enjoy an evening at the Barksdale Theatre this evening, but I don’t recommend business meetings while fasting—that bit of advice volunteered by Kate of Charlottesville’s Guerilla Yoga Project, a classmate who did the master cleanse a couple weeks ago, and I concede the wisdom therein. Oh, and don’t plan on any meal dates with friends or coworkers—it’s just taunting yourself. And of course, as ever: LISTEN TO YOUR BODY.

One day (almost) down, four more to go…

Has anyone else done seasonal cleansing or panchakarma? What was your experience?

The number one question I’m asked by people who are GF-curious is, “I don’t get it—why are some oats gluten-free and others gluten-full??” And after having said, “Gee, I don’t know, I should look into that,” a couple dozen times, it apparently got through my thick skull and I finally looked into it.

And the answer’s a two-parter.

First, (ha! just as I expected!) on its own, oats do not contain gluten, however, during harvest, processing, and packaging, it usually ends up containing gluten, and often a LOT of gluten, through cross-contamination. Think about it: it only makes sense that wheat, oats, barley, corn, etc., would be harvested with the same equipment, from neighboring fields, processed on the same machinery, etc.

And to clarify, the term “gluten,” as we use it here, more specifically refers to gliadin, the troublesome little protein found in wheat that is the bane of those with Celiac Disease and gluten intolerance.

Some lovely people have caught on and have started harvesting, processing, and packaging their oats so as to avoid any cross-contamination, and to these lovely souls I am tremendously grateful. I am a big fan of my homemade granola in the morning…

BUT, here’s the kicker: oats do contain a protein called avenin that sometimes can cause Celiac-like symptoms. Many people, such as myself, that have gluten intolerance and Celiac Disease tolerate moderate portions of gluten-free oats just fine, but others do have difficulty with it.

As in most things, there is no cut-and-dry universal answer except this: listen to your body.

I’ve been a self-described pacifist for a while now. I think of being a pacifist as sort of like being a member of Alcoholics Anonymous:  being a pacifist means that you admit that there is a problem—a  prevalence of physical and emotional violence in our relationships with people, with animals, with the earth—that you are no longer going to be a part of that problem, and that practicing nonviolence is a never-ending struggle.

My, my, the lessons we learn from our critters. I’m eating my humble pie, and here’s why.

A couple weeks ago, a friend of mine asked me to go check in on his dogs—for the purposes of this story, we’ll call his dogs Audrey and Piggy. He had recently started a new job and it was keeping him late, and naturally he was concerned that the change in schedule might be hard on them. Our dogs had met a couple times previously, and despite his statement that Audrey had aggression issues in the past, Audrey had seemed to do fine with my girl Rowan. So when my friend asked me to check in, neither of us thought there would be any problem with my going over there with Rowan, in fact we both thought it would be nice—they could get in a little play, romp a bit while I checked their food and water.

So Ro and I show up at my pal’s house, let ourselves in, puppies sniff each other like puppies do, and I let all three of them out back to relieve themselves. After a few minutes, I let them back in, and just as I turn around to fill up the water bowl, it starts. I have no clue what set it off, but both Audrey and Piggy were on top of my girl, one on either side of her, and within moments she was on her back, struggling to defend herself. Without thinking I jumped right in and was able to get Piggy back out the back door. But Audrey wouldn’t let go.

Time slowed down like it does in a crisis, and I found myself split somehow. Part of me was shrieking and pleading for Audrey to let go of Rowan. The other part of me was methodically searching through options, trying different strategies:

First, dominance—big voice, strong posture, command. No beans.

Second, trying to pry Audrey’s jaws off of Rowan. No good, plus a few cuts, and I’m lucky I didn’t get worse.

Third, a cutting board to try to stun the big dog, which did nothing but make it worse. At this point I’m pretty clear that I may actually be watching my dog die.

Lastly, my rational part saw a large chopping knife on the kitchen counter. While trying to keep my hands on Rowan to keep her body from being broken, I contemplated how best to kill her attacker. And then it happened. Ro had been screaming the whole time, but now she locked eyes with me, and she howled. At me. In one moment, all of my love and desperation just choked me. I love my girl. There aren’t even words. And she loves me. And I’ve never had children, but I imagine it’s a bit like that. To have someone that depends on you for care and protection, crying out to you for help, and to feel completely incapable, impotent, helpless. And at the same time, they remind you so thoroughly of who you are, who they need you to be.

And I could not kill that dog.

So I reached into my metaphorical toolkit and I asked for a tool. If I were a dog, I thought, what would I do to get Audrey to stop? And even as I reached for it, the tool was placed in my hand, without any doubt. I released both animals, got down on my belly, made soft sounds saying Audrey’s name—I made myself submissive. I don’t know if it was out of sheer shock or if Audrey really recognized my gesture, but regardless, he released my girl. Within seconds I had him out the back door.

Rowan and I were at the animal hospital till just past 2 a.m.

Ro is doing fine now. Stitches and staples are out now and she is mending well, in body and spirit. She’s still a little jumpy, understandably, but it’s getting better every day.

Me, I’m still digesting. I’ve been scared in my life, but I’ve never been as scared as I was that night. I’m still having dreams about it—there are many lessons here. But here’s what I’ve got so far.

1. Complacency is a bitch. Rowan has been a constant source of love and companionship for eight years, and she depends on me. I got sloppy, reckless, and I put her in a situation that could have gotten her killed—the warning signs were there. It won’t happen again, that’s for damn sure.
2. When the shit hits the fan, it’s a real test of what you believe. Being nonviolent is a lot easier when violence isn’t pounding on your door. I never thought it would be so hard to stay my own hand.
3. You can only find and use the tools that you’re willing to ask for. Now, I’m not recommending that if anyone gets into a dog fight they should go submissive. In my case, it worked, miraculously, but if I was looking objectively at the scenario I’d have to say it’s probably a really bad idea, harebrained, and reckless. But in the moment I was certain it would work. I asked for the tool, and I got it. Our rational, cynical minds can often forget the strength of intuition, instinct, clarity. Faith.
4. And lastly, Rowan is unequivocally the bestest pup ever. Period. No contest.

I’m a very grateful girl.