Cheryl Katz

I think I’ve figured out what my body is doing here.

I’m building muscle mass, check.  I’m gaining a little weight, check.  I’m starting to look slimmer… not check.

I think what’s happening is that I’m building muscle, which is well and good, except that it’s pushing all my fat OUT.  I’m sure with time I’ll work it all down and lean muscle mass will rule the day (my long runs are around 8 miles now; when we’re talking 12 or 14 miles, we’ll talk again.)  I just need to hang in there.

Sadly, weight loss nutrition and sports nutrition are somewhat at odds with each other.  Fueling an intense run requires eating in quantities and composition things that from a weight loss perspective I am not inclined to consume.  I need to find a balance so that I can adequately fuel my run, develop longer and longer endurance, but also avoid overfueling and building fat stores rather than depleting them.

Damn, but I wish I were better at this nutrition thing.  In any case, I’m trying to relax.  I’m trying to look at these small gains not as setbacks but as the implementation of a new paradigm, new goals with new priorities.  Maybe I will never actually hit my weight loss goal, but if one day I can maintain an 8 minute mile, will it feel worth it?

I don’t know yet.  I’ll let you know when I get there.

(Yup, Ethiopian food again.)

In the spirit of, you know, running with a theme for the entire week, I decided to work the berbere spice blend I threw together a few days ago and rock out with my bad self and $2.50 worth of round steaks which I pre-rubbed with the berbere spices.

I sauteed onions in a tablespoon of canola oil until they were just translucent, then added spices to coat. Sauteed another 30 seconds until well coated, stirring a lot. Removed 90% of the onions from the pan then added the beef strips and cooked them for a good 10-15 minutes, flipping every 5 min or so. I tossed in some more spice blend just for fun, and when I thought the scent was starting to wear off.

After the meat was cooked through, I removed all of the onions and beef from the pan and combined them with the onions I’d removed before. Then I was left with a crusty, spicy, cast iron skillet. Not one to let concentrated flavor go to waste, I threw in some club soda and stirred/scraped the bottom of the pan until most of the crusted-down spices came up. After a few minutes I had a dark brown, tasty sauce reduction which I poured off onto the beef and onions.

Not to be outdone, not even by myself, I made a vague facsimile of injera. I had no teff flour, so I used a mixture of white and whole wheat flours, and added club soda for additional bubbling action. (Recipe here.) I am not crazy about this recipe and will probably try another quick version before I get off my butt and just make some damn teff sourdough starter a few days ahead of when I know I’ll want injera.

So tonight I served up the lentils from Monday, the greens from Tuesday and my approximation which is almost dead-on authentic zilzil, along with pancakes that were super bubbly but not at all injera-like.

The lentils got better after each day in the fridge as leftovers. And this was probably one of the tastiest dinners I’ve had at home in a long time.

I’ve been cooking like a crazy yet responsible person lately!  Here’s what was on the menu this week: An Ethiopian inspired lentil and tomato stew.  I made the berbere (traditional Ethiopian spice blend) using what I had available in my spice cabinet to start with, and it turned out just a hair shy of authentic.  I also tossed in some turkey, since even the suggestion of meat content magically makes my husband enjoy things more.  (I swear if I waved bacon over his ice cream, he might actively drool on it.  How’s that for a kashrut violation?)

It was a hit!  Not having time or energy or, you know, a time machine to go back a few days and start a sourdough starter of teff so that I could make my own injera (flat spongy Ethiopian ace-bandage rolly bread) we instead finished off the last of a loaf of crusty bread I’d baked over the weekend.  It wasn’t half bad!

Another night I killed two bunches of leafy greens with one (again, Ethiopian!) recipe.  I confess, I am kale-d an chard-ed out this season, and yet I believe that there is no end in sight.  So I sauteed some onions in oil, coated them in the berbere mixture until our house smelled like some earthy culinary temple of incense, then tossed the kale in, added water and simmered.  This was a true accomplishment – the result was just like the greens dish at our local Ethiopian restaurant except for that I oversalted just a tad.  Served this with leftovers of the lentil stuff, which seem to just get better with more time in the fridge.

After the greens were finished, the loaf of whole wheat bread in my bread machine entered the last stages of its bake phase, and the combination of toasty incense herb smell and freshly baking bread was literally mouth-watering.  However, the bread wasn’t done in time to feed my starving family by about an hour, so Ben picked up some run of the mill supermarket wheat bread which served our purposes adequately if not stellarly.

I sort of have a problem buying things in stores like bread (challah excepted, as I haven’t yet produced a challah with which I’ve been happy enough to rely on baking it once a week for Shabbat.)  Especially when it comes to sandwich bread – the bread that my bread machine produces is so functional and SO GOOD, and furthermore SO CHEAP that it’s hard for me to sign on to pay $3 or $4 for a loaf of pre-sliced, preservative-full bread.  I have a bread machine, may as well make it pay for itself, and it makes better sandwich bread than I can make by hand.  The texture comes out much more even, and the loaf is generally more slice-able.  Until I get better at hand-baking breads, the bread machine will be my go-to for staples.

Yesterday I put up a batch of graham cracker dough (recipe here) and rolled it out, laid it in a baking sheet and chilled it overnight.  I baked them this morning, and they already have a Sami stamp of approval.  They’re not as pretty as what you get in a supermarket box, but they do come packaged in 100% less cardboard and plastic, and they have the added side effect of making the entire house smell delicious.

Next up: homemeade marshmallows.  I’m not going to make my own chocolate, but I do see s’mores in our future.

Ben’s car registration sticker came in the mail recently.  Last night, he told Sami that it was a sticker for his car, and that they’d make a project of putting the sticker on his car together.

This morning, Ben left for work, and Sami grabbed the DMV envelope off the table and ran after him crying, “I WANTED TO DO THE STICKER WITH DADDY ON HIS CAAAAAARRRRR!”  Oh, my heart broke for her, she was so, so sad.  He was down the block and around the corner by the time we got outside to see if we could wave him down.

I called Ben, and he said that they’d made a time-specific date (after work, after dinner!) which Sami apparently forgot.  I told him I’d relay this, and also pass along his disappointment that she’d forgotten to write it in her calendar.  (I did, and she said approximately, WTF?)  Anyway, they’re doing it this evening, and everyone is happier now.

Sami made sure I did not hang up before she explained what had happened: “I got mad at Daddy.  Then I cried.”

The Case Against Breast-Feeding – The Atlantic (April 2009).

I’m a little bit gobsmacked about this article.  It’s one thing to feel suckered into nursing children, especially if you expected miraculous results.  It’s entirely another to go on and declare nursing essentially a hoax, a clever ruse designed to keep women chained to their homes and their babies.

Perhaps what we really want is a world where nursing is an easier choice?  One where moms aren’t made uncomfortable for feeding their babies in public, where moms have time and space for pumping at work if necessary, and one where everyone is better educated about the place of breastfeeding in a family.

Then it could be a personal choice of how to feed one’s child, not a choice under duress from the healthcare conspiracy accusing people of being bad parents whether they choose breast or bottle.  Imagine that!

Sami’s school held a special Mother’s Day event yesterday, and of course I attended.  Here’s a picture of us during craft time (colored and scented bath salts in a jar pre-decorated by Sami!)

It was unexpectedly sweet; last year Sami had been in the 18-month class for two months, and we did a craft project together and the children gave the moms gifts that they’d made – a picture frame with a snapshot of each child. But the kids were so young, it was fun but not so poignant in the same way.

This year, the class had prepared a song, which they sang slightly proudly, slighty shyly, well directed by their teacher. Sami was so overwhelmed by the song that as it ended she ran across the room and hugged me. I don’t think I need to write it, but I will anyway tell you that I was choking back tears for the rest of the morning. Video below; blurry but so, so cute.

There will come a day when I am not the greatest joy in Sami’s heart, and she’ll probably tell me she hates me and that I don’t understand her. I hope that I can build an open and trusting relationship with her to avoid a lot of the drama and anger, but I know that we’re talking about normal adolescent rebellion and the establishment of her blossoming independent adult identity. What comes, I believe that with love and patience on both sides, we’ll take everything in stride.

But this weekend, Sami loves me with all the space she has in her mind and heart, except for the corners saved for chocolate and for her tricycle. And my awareness of her awareness of our relationship is completely humbling. In fact, beyond humbling and more like being steamrolled entirely flat by the love of my child.

I wish this exploding heart joy to every mom out there, whether you’re already someone’s mom, or will be one day.

Also: I am thinking I need to start a photo series called Asleep with Book. Sami loves to read, but dang does it wear her down!

Potty training, until complete, is largely a pain in the bazooty as far as I can tell. So far my experience goes like this: I ask her every half hour if she needs to go to the potty, she generally ignores me, occasionally goes on her own (YAY!), and more often than not will announce that she has to go poop, but that she doesn’t want to do it in the potty (not-so-YAY.) Needless to say, my days of nasty diapers are eventually coming to an end, but the end isn’t in sight just yet. Nevertheless, any time I have to use a restroom while we’re out and about, Sami cannot be expected to stay at the table with whomever is with me.

On Monday, Ben, Sami and I went for Shabu-Shabu to celebrate Ben’s return from a weekend business conference. I had to go to the restroom, and of course Sami came with me. This was a unique bathroom, being of the one-patron-unisex variety, because it had not only a toilet but a urinal. I don’t know for sure, but I can say with reasonable certainty as the person who generally accompanies Sami to restrooms, she has never seen a urinal before.

“I WANT TO SIT ON THE LITTLE POTTY!” I imagine her demand reverberated through the whole restaurant, but since I can’t see other patrons reacting, I don’t have to die of humiliation.

“It’s not a potty, Sami. It’s called a urinal. Big boys stand and pee there.”

“BUT I WANT TO SIT ON THAT POTTY!” There aren’t caps big enough to express how badly she wanted this. But, hello? Sitting on a urinal? Ew.

“Nope. That one is only for boys. You can use the regular potty, or else you have to wait until we go home.” She stomped and whined a little, but got the message. She actually even went on to successfully use the potty, complete with voluntary hand-washing.

Not to be spared public attention-calling, Sami sprinted back out to where Ben was waiting and announced, “I WENT PEEPEE ON THE POTTY! BY! MY! SELF!”  All by herself.  Yup.

Actually, we’ve already broken up.  The relationship hadn’t been working for some time, but because of some straggling threads of mutual purpose, it got dragged out to this.

I deactivated my Facebook account for the final time last night, and here is why.

First of all, I really tried, but at the end of the day I truthfully do not care which European city, which 80s movie, which neighborhood in which city, yada yada, my friends are most like.  Many of the items on my main Facebook page are mindless quizzes and while I could block them one by one, I am no longer willing to sacrifice the time or energy required to filter out the drivel so that all I get is a substantive experience of my friends’ lives.

Second, I dislike the feeling of posting my current status as if shouting a conversation topic into the middle of a large room, and waiting to see if anyone responds.  This is not to say that I posted status for the primary reason of attracting responses; in fact I posted status updates if a) there was something of minor importance I wanted people to know and b) to be participating.  The act of posting, though, created the vacuum in its wake wherein I would be expecting or at least aware that reponses were possible.  It also created the expectation that I would post again, and a resulting hyper-awareness of what I did each day and each item’s suitability for Facebook-posting.

Most importantly, I disliked what it was doing to my friendships.  I’ve discovered that the best friendships I have are with people who interact least with me on Facebook.  (This is not a commentary on whether or not those people were connected to me on Facebook, merely a qualitative analysis of time spent communicating in Facebook vs. non-Facebook media; the people whose non-Facebook percentage was higher are people that I am closer to.)  I don’t need or want artificial friendships.  I don’t need or want Facebook providing a convenient yet juvenile method of communication that technically satisfies the general friendly communication requirement without any necessary personal interaction at all.  (”Tell so and so that I blah blah blah….”  Why don’t we just tell those people those things?  It all feels very middle school to me.)

I don’t think that they way Facebook allows friendships to go in lazy directions is necessarily a healthy thing, especially for someone like me who is sensitive to everything.   So sure, I will feel left out when there are tea-storms of activity on Facebook that I eventually hear about.  But not being connected will also help keep me focused on the positive relationships I have, and not on the weaker ones that are foundering, or the relationships others have around me that don’t include me.

I suppose I could go on for days about this, but I just won’t.  There are things I’ll miss – links, recipes, breaking news, photos.  But I imagine that I will still hear about and see these things in due time.  I don’t feel the need to be cutting edge about engaging in life any more.  I don’t feel the need to be tracked by whoever out there wants to track me, motion for motion.  I’m happy to take back my time and my focus, once and for all.

In short, Facebook, it’s been fun.  But it’s not you, it’s me, and for my own sake, I just need to be done.  My friends know where to find me.

Recently I went to an eye doctor appointment (totally healthy eyes, by the way, though my prescription continues to change) and was approached by someone on the street on my way in. It wasn’t a case of Overt Homeless Appearance syndrome or anything, someone who looked like they might just need directions.

“Can you help a hungry Christian?”

He had me in pause mode right up through “hungry.” I was so pan-seared with anger when he specified Christian that I could barely respond. I think I might have said, “No, thank you,” as if he’d been selling something.

Clearly, his alms collection scheme has proven more effective when he appeals to people through religion. I firmly believe that he included the Christian element because it’s been rewarded in the past. That said, I found it abhorrent because it implied that the approached person might be more likely to give him charity knowing that he is Christian? Why would he suggest that? Why would potential almsgivers respond to that?

I am not any more likely to give to someone who tells me they are Christian. In fact, I am less likely because of the presumption that somehow my charitable intentions are more strongly encouraged with religious bias. Yup, I identify as a Jew. I will *be* Jewish in a few weeks. These things said, hungry person, hungry human being, hungry child, hungry student, hungry caveman, you have my attention (though I still am not likely to hand you a dollar. More likely my leftover sandwich.) To make the appeal on the assumption that I am Christian (OK, a statistical probability in this country) – not only not OK, but actually offensive.

It didn’t happen, but I suspect I might have reacted similarly had the person identified themselves as a hungry Buddhist, Jew, Muslim, witch, whatever. No one hungry person is more deserving of my assistance simply on the basis of religion. Only less likely.

After a long day out and about yesterday, Sami crashed in the car on the way home. (We’re talking 5 PM – not a convenient or particularly healthy time for a crash, so needless to say a) I didn’t wind up being able to accept the impromptu dinner invitation we received and b) she woke up practically in the middle of the night hungry for dinner.)

At actual dinner time, I was alone and brought near to the brink of starvation by my own drive not only to feed myself but to somehow be creative about it. I wound up throwing a salad together from rinsed spring mix from our CSA box, some strawberries and a few crushed walnuts, and a home made vinaigrette.

Not quite the satisfying dinner I was looking for, but at least it was attractive looking and probably a #2 on a scale of creativity where 0 is boring as hell and 10 is mindblowing delicious creative artiness. Nonetheless, after this bowl of yum, I was still craving substance.

I cooked up some split peas (didn’t have any lentils in the house) then drained them, tossed them in a tablespoon of vinaigrette, added salt and pepper and chopped in some Irish cheese. Again with the not terribly creative, but what it lacked in originality it sure made up for in satisfaction and in flavor.

I have so much to write about, things with actual substance, and they are so large that I can’t get them out here when I want them. Instead I am holding place with some minutiae, though I suspect it’s in the minutiae that people find the unexpected interesting nuggets of writing that bring me back to others’ blogs. C’est la vie. I offered this by way of lame near-apology; I hope that my “off” posts offer some level of sustenance even if they’re not the masterpieces I hope to be writing. If you’re still reading here, thanks for giving me audience. This blog is as much for me as it is for you.