Category Archives: Mindful Meals

Body. Soul. Planet. Part 1

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As practically everyone in the Western world knows, today the blockbuster book Eat Pray Love hits theaters with Julia Roberts center screen. Like the book’s author Elizabeth Gilbert, we all have our journeys, and we all have our epiphanies along the way. Here are some postcards from mine that led me here. Now. Nourished. This is Part 1 of 3.

Body

Whoosh, writing this was tough. My journey to being nourished started with, quite frankly, a whole lot of pain. These are moments in time from the five years that turned my life upside down.

June, 1994

I’m sitting at my desk at work in Manhattan trying not to wince while my knees throb so palpably I can almost here a thRUM, thRUM, thRUM coming from them. I try to stay focused on the screen in front of me and not freak out at the little voice in my head that says, “Oh my God, if you feel like this at 23, just think how much you’ll be hurting at 40 … 50 … 65!”

Most mornings I have trouble twisting the cap off the toothpaste.

I feel ancient and fragile and frail and … fat. Not obese, but fat like an overstuffed-cushion-straining-the-seams fat. With all this pain and the discomfort of too much me, I feel like I’m somewhere—in someone’s body—I’m not meant to be.

My doctors don’t know what the hell to make of me. I’ve had blood tests and MRIs, been shuttled from specialist to specialist and given cortisone shots in both my shoulders and hips, and they still don’t know what’s wrong with me.

July, 1997

It’s a summer day in San Francisco and I’m bundled in my woolies at the office of my new rheumatologist. I’ve been Christopher’s wife just three months. I’m away from friends and family and everything I’ve known, and now, based on what my doctor has just told me, I have a new title, too.

Lupus patient.

Part of me is petrified by what he’s saying; I have a disease that, if not kept in check, may kill me. As my doctor tells me how important it is that I “adopt a healthy lifestyle,” the little voice inside me howls, “HOOOWWW?”

Part of me, though, is relieved, too. The pain I’ve been feeling all these years finally has a name. There’s something we can do about it, medication he can prescribe.

So I do as he says and start taking pills, stay out of the sun and try to get a grip on my new reality.

December, 1997

It’s just days before Christmas, and Christopher and I are packing for a trip to Paris. I am busting out excited. After coping with the lupus diagnosis and adjusting to the drugs, I’m ready for something good.

The phone rings. I answer. It’s my doctor. “I got your pap test back and I have some news.” I gulp. “It has come back irregular. Highly irregular.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, feeling my legs turn to jelly.

“We’ll have to do more tests to find out what it means for sure, so let’s have you come back in.”

“But I’m leaving tomorrow for Paris.”

Silence. “Oh. Well, that’s fine. This can wait a few weeks.”

“You’re sure I shouldn’t be worried?”

“No, no. Don’t be worried. Just go enjoy your trip and we’ll get you in for more tests when you get back.”

It’s strange to look back and have such incredibly dichotomous memories of that trip. In the photos, I’m beaming—I’m with my beloved husband who has never been to France, in my old stomping grounds from when I was a student at the Sorbonne, in a city I adore.

But I also remember a deep, gnawing, unabating terror that’s invisible in the photographs. I was convinced that this would be the last trip Christopher and I would ever take together. As we sipped café au laits and nibbled on croissants, I already felt too much of a burden to my new groom to share these new woes.

So I kept them to myself.

December, 1998

It has been a year since that phone call from my doctor and I’m lying on the pullout couch with a pillow over my stomach. My mom and Christopher are taking turns keeping our puppy at bay. Instinctively, he wants to care for me after my hysterectomy.

Month after month of various tests turned up absolutely nothing until, a few weeks ago, I’d asked my gynecologist to take another look at the original results before closing the case. She’d called back two days later with a grave note to her voice.

“I hate to say this, Lia, but the previous lab misdiagnosed. You don’t have what we’ve been looking for all year.”

“Well that’s good.”

“You have something much worse.”

Forget jelly knees. I just collapsed. “What does that mean?”

“You have adenocarcinoma in situ, and they’re highly unpredictable, pre-cancerous cells. I’m going to set you up with an oncologist to get a second opinion, but I think you and Christopher need to talk about whether or not you want to have children. If you want to have a child, you need to do it now—and it will still be risky. Otherwise, I’d like to schedule you for a hysterectomy next week.”

I’m in such deep shock that I don’t feel anything. The cloud cushions me, in fact, until Christopher gets my call, hops on a plane in Maryland, walks through our door and holds me. Then I fall apart.

To this day, every time a new doctor looks at my chart their eyes pop and then they look at me and tell me how incredibly lucky I am that someone caught the diagnosis. That I’m lucky to be here, sitting across from them, alive.

December, 1999

It’s two days before the turn of the Millennium, and Christopher and I drive into Tahoe. All the cars have skis on their roof racks; we have beach chairs.

The week before, we’d put everything we owned into storage (or into the back of our truck, which now sports a nifty two-level storage system and chili pepper drapes thanks to Christopher) and moved out of our apartment. We’ve decided to take a life sabbatical and drive to Costa Rica.

The decision, like most huge life decisions, was long in coming and then made in an instant. Christopher was miserable with his job and questioning … everything. What was happiness? What did we really need? What are we here for?

And I didn’t have any stomach left for wasting time with things that sucked the life out of us. I was tired of baby showers (which were a regular occurrence for my friends back then) turning into pity parties … and then having to grapple with the guilt accompanying the admission that I didn’t even really want to be a mom. I was tired of feeling tired from the lupus. Truth be told, I was pissed at my body.

We were on a bike ride in the Marin Headlands one day in April fantasizing about chucking it all and driving to Costa Rica and I just stopped and got off, right by the estuary, and said, “let’s do it. Let’s just say right now that we’ll just figure out a way to make it happen and do it.”

Eight months later we’re in Tahoe in the dead of winter with no home and beach chairs on our truck.

Click here for Part 2: Soul. My soulful awakening around food happened during a year abroad in Europe. The reverberations, though, lasted decades.

(Almost) Traditional Spanish Paella

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Perhaps no dish conjures up more images of Spain than paella. Steeped in history and distinctive spices, to prepare this dish is to summon the soul of Spain and the spirit of her people.

For the uninitiated, paella (pronounced “pie-AY-ya”) is kind of a rice casserole, traditionally prepared in a special kind of pan (from which it takes its name) over an open fire. And it’s prepared by men.

Food carries a very strong cultural imperative in Spain, and customs are not swept away merely for the sake of political correctness. Throughout Spain, there are exclusive all-male clubs dedicated entirely to cooking and to the pleasures of the table.

Paella has at least 400 years of history, and its origins are in the province of Valencia, on the southeast coast. There, they grow the medium-grain Valencia rice that absorbs flavors wonderfully and is the key to the dish. The first paellas were made by peasants, using their native rice and whatever was available–often snails, onions, and that curious import from the New World, the tomato.

Since then paella has evolved into an enormous variety of dishes in every region of Spain, as well as the Caribbean, Central and South America, and the Philippines. Many use saffron, but not all, and the countless combinations of ingredients include all manner of shellfish, game, fowl, mushrooms, and finfish.

The traditional method, using the wide, shallow, heavy-bottomed paella pan, cooks slowly over a well-regulated fire. Where Americans might have a clambake, Spanish families have beach cookouts where paella is made amid plenty of wine-fueled arguments about the right way to do it. Controlling the fire, stirring enough but not too much, when to add which ingredients so they cook completely without overcooking; all this is debated throughout the process because every Spanish cook claims to make the best paella. This method takes practice and patience, but is quite rewarding for all who partake.

Now for those who are looking for a shortcut, here’s a simpler method that cooks the rice and the seafood/chicken/chorizo mixture separately so it doesn’t require the constant attention of the traditional method. Breaking with tradition is not a sin of which I am often guilty, but I have to admit that this does produce quite a tasty dish … even if I would be shunned by my fellow male chefs in Spain.

A Road Less Traveled

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This is a post I wrote over a year ago, just after launching the beta of NOURISH Evolution. It could have been written yesterday (and its exhortation is still applicable to me today) about being on the other side of so many other things: the NOURISH Evolution redesign, the launch of My Nourish Mentor, growing comfortable with teaching and leading and being on TV. We all go at such a pace it can be easy to forget where we’ve come from. Maybe you, too, are at a place where it would do you good to pause and ponder … what you’ve accomplished, what still lies ahead, who you are. If that’s you, I hope you enjoy revisiting this as much as I did.

For months and months and months I’ve been going at a pace that I knew I couldn’t–didn’t want to—sustain, just to get over the hump. And now that NOURISH Evolution is on its feet in its first iteration, I feel like I’m finally on the other side. Which is very good. One of my goals was to get over the hump before the end of July, when my daughter starts her first days of pre-school, so I can really focus on nourishing my family and friendships.

But I realized this weekend that in order to do that, I also needed time to renew myself.

road-less-traveled

So this morning I woke up committed to taking some me time. I dropped Noemi off at daycare still unsure of where I was headed. Yoga? I thought . . . but my body is sore and a class felt like too much. A walk with Jann? I thought  . . . but Jann’s grandsons are in town and she’s got her hands full. It was early and cool on a day destined to be a scorcher, and I suddenly realized how much I craved being outside, walking, moving, inhaling. I headed towards West Dry Creek to take my usual loop around Brack and Jameson alone; a walk that I know every step of almost by heart.

And then I felt a gentle urging to keep driving up the road; to go someplace I hadn’t been before.

So I did, not much further, just a mile or two. I turned left onto Wine Creek Road, parked at the edge of a vineyard and stepped out to explore. All the elements were the same—lush vineyards, the broad shoulders of St. Helena in the distance, the gentle rise of Geyser Peak—but the perspective on each was different than I was used to and I felt like I was seeing the beauty of this place with fresh eyes. I recognized the scent of crushed fruit and dusty earth that has brought tears to my eyes more than once in the past for the sentiment it stirs in me of a longing satisfied. I stopped to nibble on plump blackberries and plums and marveled anew how breakfast can grow wild by the side of the road.

This place claimed me over a decade ago; it was the first place I ever felt called home to and it’s where I am content and humbled to be raising a daughter I never could have imagined with a husband I never could have hoped for doing what I never would have dared dream.

I just needed to be reminded.

It was a road I hadn’t traveled before—much like the one I’m headed down with NOURISH Evolution—and it was just where I needed to be.

Picnic Gear Guide

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To me, summer is synonymous with picnic. Sure, there are barbecues. There’s abundance in the garden too. But summer—warm weather of any sort as a matter of fact—makes me crave a picnic more than just about anything.

For Christopher and me, that used to mean an elaborate spread paired to both the wines and ambiance of a certain place (ah, the rigors of living in wine country). Just as often now, though, it means we raid the fridge and head to the Plaza where we can nibble while our daughter roams. It can even mean throwing down a blanket in the garden, as I do with Noemi when she’s cranky; it’s amazing how ‘declaring’ a picnic can lift a mood.

In terms of gear, picnics can run the spectrum. I’ve pulled together a few of my favorite options, whatever your style may be, for our first ever Summer Picnic Gear Guide:

The Basics

  • Fold-up Blanket — We keep one of these stashed in the truck at all times for impromptu picnics. All that’s needed is wine, cheese, bread and friends and you’ve got yourself an afternoon to remember.
  • Recliner – Our friends had one of these at a concert in the Plaza recently and I’ve been coveting them ever since. They’re super-sturdy, adjust to six different positions and fold flat to carry.
  • Mini Grill Grilling — These adorable little grills are small enough to keep in your trunk (along with your Impromptu blanket) with a bag of charcoal. Have sausage, will picnic.

Coolers

  • Minimalistic — Another impromptu winner. Glasses, plates, flatware and a cooler built into a nifty-looking sling-on.
  • Simple and whimsical — There’s something about this sprightly tote that screams BEACH to me. It’s got a lightweight aluminum frame with an insulated, waterproof interior and canvas exterior.
  • Everything-you-need on your back — If you’re more apt to bring a picnic on a hike in the mountains than a jaunt to the beach, then this is the backpack for you. It’s made of 600 denier polycanvas and has plates, utensils, napkins, a cutting board and even a fleece blanket. Just pack it up, pop it on and go.
  • A roller to go — Another has-everything-you-need combo, only on wheels. It’s even got salt and pepper shakers.

The Face of the Farmer

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The farmers’ market is not Safeway, and if you shop the same way at both places, then you’ve been missing out. Look at the fingernails of the people behind the tables at the farmers’ market: They’ve been digging in the dirt, lovingly tending the vegetables laid out before you (although, I’ll admit, they do lack certain bagging skills). What an opportunity to connect with your food–and the farmer who grows it!

face-of-the-farmerAt the farmers’ market, I’ve learned about vegetables that were entirely new to me (kohlrabi, purslane, scapes). I’ve learned about different varieties of foods I was already familiar with (you should see all the different kinds of garlic Yael grows), and I’ve even had my mind reopened to foods I’d spent most of my life detesting (peas, beets, asparagus). Yet the conversations have gone both ways. I’ve also taught farmers new ways to enjoy the vegetables they grow, and come back from my travels with new varieties for them to try. The farmers’ market has become much more to me than a place I gather ingredients for a meal; it’s become a place where I gather with my friends.

And, as with any group of friends, it’s hard not to slow down and enjoy myself when I’m amongst them, no matter how rushed or preoccupied I am. When they want to know how their pork shoulder . . . Swiss chard . . . foraged wild mushrooms turned out, it’s tough to let an agenda rule. And it’s a great reminder that these interactions—and the frame of mind they create in me—are what is so precious about the experience. The weekend’s to-do’s will still be there and they’ll get done . . . at some point.

How does all of this help instill a mindful eating practice? Just try it and you’ll see. The cozy feeling of community you feel as you walk away from the market will last all through your meal; just watch how your food takes on more life, both in the kitchen and at the table. When I slice my peach, I see the smile of Gayle from Dry Creek Peach and Produce, and it makes me smile too. When I drizzle honey over the top, I see the earnest joy on the faces of Hector’s family as they prepared to go, en masse, to Italy to represent Sonoma County at the Slow Food Terra Madre event.

Get to know the farmer who grows your food and you’ll be nurtured in a whole new way. You’ll forge a real connection to real food.

Seeking Solitude

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I just spent three blissful days in Point Reyes by myself. It’s funny, when I tell people I’m going away solo—often on a silent retreat—I’ll get gasps and eye pops and “don’t you get lonely?”

The answer is no. In fact, in the beginning it’s quite the opposite.

I’ve sought solitude enough now to have discovered that the first step to silence is often a lot of noise. As external distractions diminish, internal chatter becomes a roar. Sometimes, this drives me nuts. On this particular trip, though, I was more like, “huh … interesting.”

And that’s just my voice. I had plenty of others keeping me company too. Brother Lawrence. Jan Chozen Bays. Jesus. Chris Guillebeau (if you haven’t checked out his website or new book yet, do). The silence with which I’d surrounded myself eventually, within a day or so, scrubbed my mind clean—like the ocean scraping back the sand all nice and smooth after a wave has crashed—so that the thoughts sparked by these other voices had room, space, oxygen to ignite.

And ignite they did.

I feel like I’ve had my head down for months and months between launches, conferences, redesigns and the rest of life, and it was a real gift to lift my eyes and see again—clearly—the WHY behind it all.

A total bonus on this trip was how much fun I had. Like belly laugh, big sigh fun. I went for a gorgeous hike up Mount Wittenberg (confession … I wasn’t totally alone on that—several of you joined me on Facebook and Twitter and it was fun to have you along!). I sat on a dune, closed my eyes and listened to the Pacific (did you know that waves are louder going out—that scraping of the sand—than they are coming in?). On the way back inland, I had to stop five times for five separate tribes of little quailies scurrying across the road. I ate oysters. I prayed, unrushed. I laid on the beach for as long as I wanted without having to be anywhere next.

And, despite the 691 new messages in my inbox, the solitude is still a soft cushion around me. Whereas, last Thursday, I gulped lunch while taking care of last-minute to-dos, today I ate my sandwich outside with no greater distraction than the breeze in the leaves and the curious fact that our fig tree has doubled in size since I left.

For anyone who says, “I want to do that!” I’ll offer these few guidelines to seeking solitude that I’ve gleaned over the years.

1)   Be deliberate about your time. Both when you plan your getaway and what you do once you’re there. Last year, I took a retreat before a big conference and was distracted during and overwhelmed afterward. This year, I planned my retreat after the big push and felt much more free.

2)   Be in the moment. I like to have absolutely nothing planned going into my retreats so that I can respond to what I’m feeling led to do in the moment. This time, especially, it felt like exercising a mindfulness muscle; I could feel myself getting more responsive to the call of the present moment as time went on.

3)   Pack light. I am a chronic overpacker. But on solo retreats it’s better to have not enough than too much. Too much gives you an excuse to stuff the hours full of should-dos. Not enough forces you to make do with (and be delighted by) what’s already there … like when I had some time to spare and tilted back my head only to notice tufts of fog were advancing on the blue sky. I ended up “playing” with the shapes for a good 15 minutes.

4)   Stay simple. Where you stay doesn’t have to be grand either. I favor hermitages, monasteries and retreat houses, all of which offer humble accommodations at super affordable prices.

It’s important to recognize that pursuing solitude is different than taking a business trip alone. It’s deliberately removing yourself from external interactions so you can hear yourself more clearly and delve down into the essence of you. If, as you read through this, you feel a flutter of curiosity, here’s a place to start. No matter what you want to get out of your retreat or what your faith or belief, odds are there’s a quiet refuge on this listing that’s just right for you.

The Language of the Kitchen

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I know I’ve been writing a lot on Guatemala as of late. But, hey, there’s been a lot to write about. Like, for instance, the fact that I recently got into the kitchen to cook side by side with Ana Maria Chali Calan this week.

kitchen-language-postMany of you know that Christopher and I support Ana Maria’s daughter Mayra in her university studies, and I’ve written about what that means to me. But when we first became connected with the Calan family, I never imagined that Ana Maria and I would be teaching a class together here in Healdsburg.

A couple of months ago, although it seems like days, a few of us had a little planning session in my garden about how to bring Ana Maria back to the states. Slow Food Sonoma County had brought Ana Maria here in November 2008, as the leader of the indigenous women’s association AMIDI, to exchange ideas about farming and foodways in Guatemala and America.

One concern that Ana Maria voiced in 2008 was the proliferation of poorly ventilated stoves, which are both a safety and health hazard. As a result of Ana Maria’s diplomacy here, our organization was able to raise enough money to donate 41 fuel-efficient stoves shortly after her return, one to each member of AMIDI. But it didn’t stop there. Guatemalan officials heard about the stoves and went to the village to see them in action. They were so impressed that they decided to install over 6,000 of them throughout highland villages, improving—and likely even saving—numerous lives.

Fast forward—and I mean fast forward (the generous Bowmans sprung for Ana Maria’s ticket and Marilee mobilized everything expertly)—to Thursday, the day after Ana Maria arrived here in the U.S. I’m standing side by side with Ana Maria, I in my chef’s jacket and she in her huipil, and we’re preparing to teach a class together on using stone tools.

She teaches how to grind corn on a metate and hand-pat tortillas. I talked about making salsas and sauces in molcajetes (you all know I’m smitten for mortars and pestles) and then put everyone to work making their own. I even made Sandra’s Pollo en Jocon and got a thumbs up from Ana Maria herself.

This year, Ana Maria’s village faces even graver issues: the village was hit heavily by mudslides after a recent tropical storm. The water system was destroyed, houses were heavily damaged, and crops and fields and livestock were washed away. But she, they, will persevere. And we will be there to support them (if you’d like to help, click here on the donation page we’ve set up).

The language of the kitchen is universal (of course, it helps to have Marilee there translating). It never ceases to amaze me, whether in Mexico, France, Guatemala, Greece or right here at home, how strong and natural the bonds become when people are elbow to elbow washing leaves or shredding chicken or pounding herbs. Bodies relax. Divides disappear. Conversation flows freely … even when spoken in a foreign tongue.

The Case for Choosing

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This weekend, I was flipping through the latest Food and Wine when something decidedly unappetizing caught my eye. “Be An Uncompromiser!” the ad’s headline shouted, and in the text below: “Enjoy the Best of Both Worlds. The makers of Pepcid Complete understand the importance of never having to choose.”

Never having to choose? Hm. I see things a bit differently.

Whether we like or not, I believe our lives are an endless string of choices and that our fate is largely the ripple effect outcome of those choices. I’d even go so far as to say that our choices—whether what to make for dinner or which house to buy—are what define us, and I can point back to the precise moment that cemented my theory.

Ten years ago, on our way home from an extended road trip to Costa Rica, Christopher and I made a stop in Antigua, Guatemala. From the first rumble of cobblestone beneath our tires we were smitten with the town. Quaint earthen buildings in playful colors like turquoise and watermelon pink line the streets, and bougainvillea covers ruins of mansions and palaces and cathedrals. All this in the shadow of three stunning volcanoes.

Antigua Guatemala Santa Catalina archway 2009
Image via Wikipedia

That day, we took a walking tour of the town with Elizabeth Bell. Under the eaves of a centuries-old municipal building, she told us that nearly 70% of Guatemalan children don’t attend school, simply because the books and uniforms (which are mandatory) cost what would be the bulk of a family’s income.

That night, on the way back from dinner, we passed a woman with her three children begging outside our inn. Normally, we’d walk by with a wrinkled brow or, if we were feeling generous, give some money. But that night, for some reason, Christopher got down on the sidewalk and played with the kids. Their mother and I laughed so hard we were leaning on each other’s shoulders as the kids tickled and climbed all over the giant stranger.

A few hours later, we were awakened in the middle of the night by the innkeeper pounding on our door. Our truck had been broken into. We ran out, half-awake, and found that someone had broken the window, reached in and grabbed one bag before being scared off by the alarm.

The rest of the day was a blur. We spent the morning filling out forms in the police station and the afternoon driving through Guatemala City searching for someone to fix our window. But what stands out for me is our lack of immediate reaction. We could have cussed out the innkeeper. We could have accused people on the street. We could have written off Antigua, and Guatemala altogether, and headed the next day for the Mexican border. But, for some reason, we didn’t.

It turns out that Christopher and I were both thinking the same thing: the junk in our “catch-all” bag—the one that had been stolen—was worth enough to put a family of children through school for a year … children like the ones Christopher had been playing with the night before.

So we made a choice. An eyes-wide-open, go against the norm choice.

We decided to return to Antigua and, rather than try to recoup what had been stolen, give an equivalent amount back to the country and the people that had touched us so deeply in such a short period of time. Looking back on that choice now and how profoundly it has shaped my life still stuns me. If, 10 years ago, Christopher and I had “not chosen” and just gone the usual route of angry indignation, my life now—and the lives of at least three others—would be nowhere near as rich as it is today.

The Rest of the Story

We remembered that Elizabeth had told us about an organization on the outskirts of Antigua that helped impoverished children and their families through education, skills training and health care with the support of sponsors and we thought we’d start there. When we got to the campus I expected to see shame in people’s faces, as we tend to see here when people are standing on a welfare line. But it was just the opposite. These people exuded pride and strength and resolve.

As we learned more about the program, it made sense. Common Hope wasn’t about doling out to those in need—nearly everyone in the country was in need. It was about empowering those seeking to change their circumstances and holding them accountable during the process. We signed up that day to sponsor Rene Antonio, a 6-year-old boy being raised by a single mom, and met him and his family the next day. There were a lot more laughs, and hold-my-gaze-and-search-my-soul silences, and hands squeezed tight that expressed whole-hearted gratitude. Rene truly became our godson and our families extended parts of each other.

That was ten years ago. Rene is now a handsome 16-year-old boy who, with his mother’s and grandmother’s support and sacrifice, is still in school and thriving. (He wants to be a doctor, and we’re confident he will be … and you can bet we’ll be at his graduation!). We were there 3-1/2 years ago the day his family’s house was built; a one room cement home they earned through many hours of sweat equity on the Common Hope campus.

mayraThrough the years, our passion for the people of Guatemala grew. Five years ago, we committed to support a young woman named Mayra, the daughter of the village leader and a force to be reckoned with in her own right, through college. People tell us how lucky she is, but truthfully, I’m the one who feels lucky; I often feel carried by Mayra’s persistence and determination. To pursue her dream, she has to deal with racism, pre-dawn walks down a mountainside to the bus, having to balance studies with helping family grow food for their sustenance AND caring for her son on a daily basis. In my life, Mayra and Rene are more than inspirations; they’re tangible reasons to get over whatever I’m brooding about and take one more step towards my goal.

The greatest ripple effect of that day’s decision, though, came three years ago in the form of Noemi de Leon Huber … our daughter. When we decided to adopt, there was not even the inkling of a question that it would be from Guatemala. Three years ago today, Christopher and I returned to Guatemala a fourth time … to bring Noemi home.noe-on-plane

I’d love to claim that I’m a naturally saintly person who always makes compassionate, giving decisions like the one ten years ago. But I’m not. And I don’t. But the power that this single choice has had in shaping my life has inspired me to try to be more thoughtful in my choices more often.

What does all this have to do with NOURISH Evolution?

Everything. Because if we talk about reframing our view on fats, but still think eating “light” versions of mayonnaise and peanut butter will make us healthier, then it’s all for naught. Because if we suggest smart sustainable seafood but you feel, deep down, that your decisions really don’t matter anyway, then why bother? Deliberate, purposeful choices are at the core of NOURISH Evolution—what we write about, why we write about it and who we try to be.

So, to the “Makers of Pepcid Complete,” here is my case for choosing:

The maker of NOURISH Evolution understands the importance of being deliberate with your choices, and of being aware that the ripple effect outcome might well outweigh the scale of the original decision. We realize that we always have to choose, whether we’re doing it purposefully or not, and we try to make each choice be one that makes us better people and leaves the world a better place.

Which view do you live by? … It’s your choice.

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Remembering Home Cooking Lessons on Father’s Day

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By Alison Ashton

You always hear people saying they learned to cook from their mamas or grandmas. With Father’s Day coming up, I’m reminded that it was my dad who suggested I get acquainted with the kitchen with some home cooking lessons.

fathers-day“Don’t you think Alison should learn to cook something?” he asked my mom one day when I was 11.

“Why on Earth would she want to do that?” Mom asked. She was a reluctant cook herself, and the women’s movement was in full bloom at the time, so she figured if I wasn’t interested, why bother? After all, Dad wasn’t exactly nudging my brother toward the stove.

Until then, my culinary participation was limited to doing homework at the kitchen counter while Mom cooked dinner or, when she (rarely) made chocolate-chip cookies, licking the beaters. (Those were the days, before salmonella scares, when raw cookie dough was meant to be relished, not feared.)

Dad didn’t take the bait on Mom’s gender politics, so he and I embarked on a series of home cooking lessons. One of our first ventures was making brownies. We used a box mix, which is a big cheat of course, but they tasted good and offered guaranteed success. Before long, though, my tween passive-aggressive sulkiness and lack of enthusiasm took the wind out of Dad’s culinary determination and he tasked me instead with “character-building” chores, like scrubbing our redwood hot tub (above, with Dad soaking happily) with steel wool under a blazing summer sun (if only I’d stuck with learning how to cook a pot roast).

I continued to avoid the kitchen throughout my early adulthood, living on restaurant meals, takeout and convenience food. But after awhile, eating out became a chore in itself–deciding where to go, parking, the time. So I started following a recipe here and there with edible–even good–results. To my surprise, I discovered I enjoyed cooking; it was a relaxing way to end the day.

As I learned more, I worked my way into food editing and writing, where I enjoyed sharing my newfound knowledge with others. I even went to culinary school last year to fill in the lingering gaps. I learned plenty of fancy stuff—how to make crystal-clear consommé and a chicken galantine–but, truth be told, I was happiest mastering some basic skills that I likely would have picked up if I’d just stuck it out in the kitchen with Dad.

He didn’t live to witness this transformation, though I imagine he’d greet this news with a satisfied smirk and say, “Honey, if you weren’t so stubborn I would have shown you that for free.”

Well, Dad, better late than never.

Alison Ashton thumbnail

A longtime editor, writer, and recipe developer, Alison Ashton is a Cordon Bleu-trained chef and the Editorial Director for NOURISH Evolution. She has worked as a features editor for a national wire service and as senior food editor for a top food magazine. Her work has appeared in Cooking Light, Vegetarian Times, and Natural Health.

Make a Move for Kids’ Nutrition

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A week ago Friday, 500 chefs assembled at the White House (and hundreds more, including me, joined the ranks online) to kick off the Chefs Move to Schools program, part of Michelle Obama’s “Let’s Move” campaign to improve kids’ nutrition and eradicate childhood obesity within a generation. The plan is simple: chefs “adopt” a local school in hopes that they’ll be able to help transform the kids into healthier eaters. “Chefs are coming from the outside in and they’re bringing good food to the equation,” says Kim O’Donnel, chef and food writer extraordinaire.

chefs move to schoolsPart of that shift has to happen at a policy and administrative level. Right now, each child eligible for a free school lunch is allotted $2.68 per meal from the federal government. The buzz you’re hearing about school lunch reform (both the House and Senate have measures on the table) will wrangle an additional 6 cents and stricter nutritional standards (including on vending machines). That means there’s plenty of room for creative solutions, which is precisely why the first lady tapped this particular group. “Chefs are always making lemonade out of lemons,” says Kim.

The other side of the equation, though, is improving nutrition by getting kids to want to eat healthier–to imbue in them the pleasures of fresh food amidst this world of fast food and drive-thrus. Michelle Stern from What’s Cooking, a blog about cooking with kids for a better body, planet and community, said the first lady had several suggestions for the audience, from cooking demonstrations to planting a garden to working with teachers to introduce food into the curriculum.

But it’s not just chefs who can affect what kids want to eat—and do eat—in schools. You can too. Here are some ideas that bubbled up from my own experience and conversations with Kim and Michelle:

  • Get Kids Involved. “Once you get kids involved in one step, they immediately take ownership,” says Kim. “Even things like taking tortillas out of a package or learning to use a can opener … If they’re invested in the meal, they’re more likely to want to eat it.” You can do this for an entire class, your kids’ friends on a play date (see me and Noe on TV showing how to make food fun for kids here) or simply for your own kids. But it will make a difference.
  • Get Kids Growing. If you have a garden, invite kids in to explore. My husband planted our daughter a “candy tree” (really a cherry tomato plant) when she was less than a year old and the tradition stuck. This year, Noemi and I added a strawberry patch to the garden. It’s incredible to witness the sheer delight she gets from seeing snacks appear day after day. If you have kids and no garden, plant something—anything—in a pot or box or on a sunny sill just to give your kids that experience of watching something grow.
  • Share What You Know. You may well have more to offer your local schools than you think. Know how to bake bread? Fantastic … there’s a science project just begging to be mined. Are you from a country with a rich culinary heritage? Beautiful … a map, a story and a few dishes and you’ve got a social studies presentation. Do you have a computer? Print out or e-mail stories and recipes that you feel could be of help or inspiration to teachers or other parents … you can start right here on !

Was this move on Washington the end-all be-all shift to end childhood obesity? Not quite. “(The initiative) needs some tending and time to mature,” says Stern. O’Donnel agrees that this is a first step and adds, “there are small things we can do in an incremental fashion that are a lot better than not doing anything at all. Let’s not worry about how all of this is going to turn out three years from now. Let’s focus on what’s happening now.”

So this week I extend the challenge beyond chefs to parents and neighbors alike … let’s make a move.