The book is exactly what the author bills it to be: not a diet book, nor a nutrition manual, as the author is of neither profession, but rather a kind of homespun approach to healthy living and eating from the French culture that formed her. As a teen, she took an exchange trip to America, and, by the end of it, packed several pounds on for her return trip. Reading her descriptions of frequent stops at special pastry shops when she moved to Paris was like holding up a mirror to myself!

After bemoaning her thickened physique, she enlists the help of a doctor she calls Dr. Miracle, and with a few weeks of keeping a food diary to discover her “offenders” and then a time of “recasting,” she got back on track. And, started observing how Frenchwomen pursue life and food and fitness very differently from us Americans.

One of her many suggestions that I took away from this book was quite simple, as they all were, really. She discusses the importance of eating at the table and lingering over a meal. This is not headline news of course, but something that’s gotten lost as I frequent drive-thrus or eat out of to-go containers in cars, on couches, or while baking cupcakes.

Her idyllic descriptions of family meals and comforting recipes and fruit picked from a garden just outside the kitchen door made me yearn. To go to France, of course, but more practically, to inject a sense of ceremony and import, even leisure, back to eating. The scarfing, wolfing, binging, and grazing aren’t exactly pleasurable endeavors; they’re just habit, I suppose.

So, I’ve been doing it. Nothing fancy really, I just cleared off a corner of the kitchen table (that seems perpetually covered with items “too heavy” to carry to another part of the house) and sat down with a bowl of turkey chili one day and a slice of potato/poblano/corn gratin yesterday.

I ate.

More slowly, I noticed. Probably because I wasn’t perched on a sofa edge or hovering over the sink as per usual, not focused at all on what I put into my mouth. 

Seated at the table, there’s less to focus on, mainly, your plate, and the rhythmic nature of fork to food to mouth. It took the same amount of time as other eating methods, but if seemed more relaxed, more intentional, more at ease.

I see Mireille’s point. I know how treating myself to a sit-down, white-tablecloth dinner can feel. When I dine in nice restaurants, it is an experience. I think I carry myself differently, even hold my fork in a more civilized way! It’s a worthwhile practice to get into at home, to really enjoy food and delight in eating a well-prepared meal.

Whenever I see the word “vinegar” on a bag of chips, I get excited, hoping to see “balsamic” precede it. You see, my friend Alison and I stumbled upon these while traipsing across England and Ireland three, almost four years ago, literally backpacking though we did rent a car to drive from Dublin to Cork and back.

I think it was during the English leg of our journey that a quick stop in a sandwich shop netted us a little bag of the heretofore unheard of balsamic tasties. We were instantly hooked. But, alas, it seemed this brand of Kettle Chip was only for the Europeans. Aside from one bag that Alison’s cousin shipped to us and that we devoured shamefully fast, this delectable chip lives on only in memory.

Until now…well, sort of. The Tyrrells’ chips are special, to be sure. Thick and crispy, with a thin edge of potato skin still attached and an appropriate amount of finger-glistening oil, plus the malt and cider vinegar in them combines for a tang that’s not too much. We’re not talking a dyed Easter egg kind of vinegar here. Just one that makes your mouth water.

It can fill the void for now.

I have nothing and everything on my mind.

Two more days until V-day and wondering how high the cupcake demand will be this year. Our quasi manager at the store had her baby Friday so we’re without her driving force. It feels like more work, more pressure, though no one is making demands of me. The nature of not having any leadership though continues to bode ill, I feel. My desires to move on, to do something else grow stronger. I keep on the lookout.

Maybe I’ll even do some today. The possibilities for careers, internships, jobs seem endless. They might even involve moving. I think I could be ready for that challenge.

And, if I’m being honest, the proximity of Valentine’s Day does make me wistful for a Valentine of my own. For all seasons, of course.

I’m just really thankful for the quiet softness of today.

The day, a Wednesday, started out with the sweet sound of tapping on glass, otherwise known as my text message alert. The birthday wishes started coming in via text, phone call, Facebook post and message. I gobbled them all up, all day long, with my smile growing ever wider. Then, my parents took me out to a nice local restaurant with a flavorful menu. I had a massive pork chop with an apple and dried cherry chutney atop cheese grits and green beans on the side. My father enjoyed some blackened amberjack, my mom, bacon-wrapped scallops.

Back at home, we assembled the 3-layer cake my sweet mom had baked earlier. After a mild fiasco born of an impatience to whip the chocolate frosting from the refrigerator before it came to room temp like the recipe said, we were all happily munching tall slices. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting has long been my favorite. For this year, my mom executed the one from this cookbook. 

So, stuffed to the gills, I went to bed very happy. Oh, but not before checking Facebook a few more times for late night birthday wishes.

For the weekend, I convinced a few friends to go to a barrel race about an hour away from Birmingham. I borrowed a pair of cowboy boots from a coworker to look the part. For some reason, my inner cowgirl, the horse-loving 12-year-old I had been, steered me to look for such an event. We saw many impressive runs, a few for their skill and some for their unfortunate missteps. In a barrel race, a horse and rider are timed as they complete a cloverleaf pattern around three barrels and race back out the way they came. It was a random birthday thing to do, and I enjoyed most just riding in the car with my three friends there and back, being surrounded by laughter.

We followed our outing with dinner at Leonardo’s, an Italian place that serves these chewy, doughy, puffy rolls in a bowl of melted butter, parmesan and spices like oregano. I’d go there just to eat those they’re so good. Carboloading is not a bad way to end any night, I say.

The next day, it was time for a celebratory brunch with my parents, my brother, and my grandmother. We feasted (seems like a theme, eh?) on French toast battered and fried to an almost funnel cake like consistency, a croque-monsieur for my mom, and a potato and egg scramble with a side of biscuits and gravy for the brother.

A few more presents, or, in the case of my procrastinating parents, wrapped pictures of promises of presents, later, my 29th birthday had been thoroughly rung in.

Birthdays are special and important. To celebrate someone’s birth, what a privilege and a joy! I try to share my love of birthdays (not just my own, though I am partial) with the people in my life. Though I am getting a year closer to the start of a decade that rhymes with “flirty,” I don’t want to dread it or bemoan it. I want to celebrate it like I’ve celebrated all my birthdays up til now!

This Wednesday is the big day, just in case you were wondering.

I turned 21 in Ireland!

Filed under: Uncategorized ]]> http://feelingfull.wordpress.com/2012/01/16/celebrate-good-times-come-on/feed/ 0 feelingfull BirthdayBash http://feelingfull.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/fuller/ http://feelingfull.wordpress.com/2012/01/10/fuller/#comments Wed, 11 Jan 2012 03:34:44 +0000 feeling full http://feelingfull.wordpress.com/?p=381 ]]> Since I last shared, I’ve been thrilled to spend time with good friends who I’ve been missing. Two from out of state were met for dinner; another more local friend who I haven’t seen in what feels like ages met me for a 3-hour lunch. And, I just got off a Skype “call” with a dear heart who is literally halfway around the world from me. Sighs of contentment all around.

This weekend, I also got to spend some unfettered time with my friend Alison. A shared love of good food is one of the many reasons we’re close. Saturday night we treated ourselves to “fancy dinner” at a local restaurant. My tab definitely reflected the fanciness aspect and I think I ordered something off every menu they put in front of me, except the wine list. It was a treat to get gussied up and go out for a great meal.

Sunday we cooked the day away together, starting with a chicken butternut squash stew followed closely by Nutella Sea Salt Cookies, all from Cookin’ Canuck. The stew was mighty tasty and my first experience cooking with and consuming quinoa.

Times like these lift me up. The friend valley I’ve been in isn’t seeming as long and deep as it was a few weeks ago. Though not fun, it did give me some time to examine and assess my expectations of my friendships, and even entertain the idea that those may be different than my friends, from their perspectives. Different, I have to remind myself, not worse or less.

That’s how we humans are. If it’s not right in front of us, we forget. We forget the bills to pay, appointments to keep, or the friends to call.

I’m having one of those days where it feels like I’m the forgotten friend.
I don’t live in the same city where a lot of my friends are, though I am nearby, and I am living with my parents for right now. (Gratefully, I might add to that last comment. Their offer for me to move in with them after I quit my job last summer was definitely a large piece of my decision to take that plunge.)

Not having my dearest friends just a few minutes down the road has increasing been a part of my life the past few years. Some have moved to go to school or to serve in the mission field or because they got married/got a job. I miss them all.
I know, Life happens and it’s not as easy to stay in touch. I’ve not made an A+ effort all the time myself. But I do want my friends to know I love them and that I try to make opportunities to stay connected to them.

I don’t always feel that desire reciprocated, to be honest. I say this knowing that I have a tendency to expect too much or want friendships to always have a high-school earnestness about them. I wouldn’t mind eating lunch with all my friends everyday!

I’m doing my best to deal with the vagaries and inevitabilities of growing up. I know I may get too attached to a particular friend for a season and then be more than bummed when that attachment is severed. I’ve learned and am still learning, I hope, what makes a good friend. Who knows? Maybe another kindred spirit friend is right around the corner.

Luckily, tomorrow, I get to see two close friends who don’t live in Alabama but are here visiting. I’ll try to let that keep me going for the next time when the phone isn’t ringing or all I seem to do is talk to people’s voicemails.

But, now I’ve changed my tune a bit. Maybe I watched it too long ago to remember or maybe I never saw it all the way through, but seeing it last night as part of the Holiday Film Series, I was moved! Almost teared up, even. We would all do to remember this life and this world wouldn’t be the same without us alive in it, and to remind others of the same.

Before the movie, we filled our bellies at Rojo, one of my favorite local restaurants. They have a Latin menu and an American menu, but I’ve never ordered off the latter because the former is too tasty to resist! Simple, flavorful, well-seasoned, and always good.

Last night I had: tacos with grilled chicken, onion, cilantro, spicy tomatillo salsa and rice and beans on corn tortillas.

The dimly lit Rojo wouldn’t have allowed for a good pic, and I was too hungry for all that anyway.

Tonight, I wanted to try something different. I had made the rounds earlier this week to procure all my ingredients. Pearled barley, believe it or not, is not found on most grocery store shelves. (I am thankful for health food stores!)

This soup, once I saw it on Orangette’s blog, spoke to me, or, probably more accurately, convicted me in all its vegetable-ladenness of my lack of such in my diet. Plus, it sounded and looked fantastic. And, it’s from a British cookbook. I didn’t need much more convincing. It offered a balanced mix of the challenge and the familiarity that I like in a recipe. I mean, I cooked with leeks and parsnips for the first time!

It was just as satisfying and comforting as it looks. My parents (one carrot hater and one garlic phobe) both slurped it up and kept singing its praises. My only swap was kale for cabbage/Brussels sprouts at the end. Now, I can make kale chips with the rest of the bunch I bought. Or, something entirely new…

“Dinner alone is one of life’s pleasures. Certainly cooking for oneself reveals man at his weirdest. People lie when you ask them what they eat when they are alone. A salad, they tell you. But when you persist, they confess to peanut butter and bacon sandwiches deep fried and eaten with hot sauce, or spaghetti with butter and grape jam.”