Archive for November, 2008

cchicken eats turkey

Yup.  I ate turkey yesterday.  I must immediately add my disclaimer- It was a locally grown, humanely raised, all natural, gluten free turkey, but turkey nonetheless.  After being meatless, but not fishless, for about five years, I ate a slice of turkey with my Thanksgiving dinner last night.  This decision came with a lot of deliberation, but surprisingly, no guilt.  As my loyal readers know, I was diagnosed with celiac disease a few months back.  Since removing wheat from my diet, I have certainly found increased energy, better focus and concentration, and pure delight at not feeling sluggish and foggy all the time.  Starting about a month ago, I confessed to my sister and that I’d been craving warm, slow cooked chicken or turkey.  I don’t really know where it came from, but suddenly, my body wanted something that I hadn’t had in years, and I had never really missed.  I began reflecting on my ‘pescatarianism’ and considering what eating some chicken or turkey would mean for me.  

Years ago, I made the conscious choice not to eat meat for a few reasons.  

1) I never really loved it anyway.  As a child, when everyone else was excited to have steak, I wanted mac and cheese or spaghetti.  Other than the Christmas Eve roast, I really never enjoyed red meat.  Too chewy.  Gross.

2) Ahimsa.  This is a Sanskrit word, meaning non-violence, one of the pillars of a yoga practice.  To me, all life forms are equal…yes, I really believe this, even though I get a lot of rolled eyes and such.  Every life is sacred, and should be treated as such.  I didn’t believe I needed other animal’s flesh in order to survive myself, so I decided to stop eating it.

3) The mass production of meat in this country.  It is just gross.  Absolutely disgusting.  Whether or not you think all animals are created equal, anyone who has had a dog in his or her life knows animals have feelings.  They feel sad, they feel pain, they feel loneliness, they feel joy, they feel fear, and they feel comfort, just to name a few emotions I see daily in my pup.  Dogs want to be loved every bit as much as us two legged animals, the humans.  And you’d better believe all animals feel emotion.  Absolutely no doubt in my mind, and I truly don’t think I’m worth more, or better than any of these creatures.  To return the the point here though, the conditions in which many of these animals are raised is truly atrocious.  I simply do not know why anyone would want to consume something raised in its own feces, fed parts of its same species, not allowed to even see the sun during growth, injected with antibiotics, and then slaughtered inhumanely.  Seriously. Think about it.  What are you putting in your body?

Animals having feelings leads me to my first examination of my ‘vegetarianism.’  I still was eating fish.  Last time I checked, fish was an animal, brain, heart, flesh, and all.  I have been feeling rather restless about this aspect of my diet for some time now.  How could I proclaim I wouldn’t eat chicken, yet I would eat the freshly caught Pacific Northwest salmon?  It was seeming rather hypocritical to me, and I reached a point where I decided I would either cut out all seafood and fish, or I would consciously add some meat back into my diet and no longer classify myself as any sort of ‘atarian.’ 

I was still on the fence about this when my sister called me a couple weeks ago after reading Gluten Free Girl by Shauna James Ahern.  (She also has been investigating all kinds of diets, allergies, and the like, as her one year old daughter has severe food allergies.)  I missed her call, but picked up the voice mail minutes later.  ”Hey- I just read this part of the Gluten Free book.  She is talking about how after finally getting diagnosed with celiac disease, after being a vegetarian for years, she’s been craving meat, and decided to have some.  She’d been malnourished for so long, her body finally wanted the protein and could handle it.  Sounds kind of like what you were saying.”  Hmmmm.  I put that one into the consideration bank, but was not yet fully decided.

I’ve also become more and more intrigued by the Native American way of life.  I’ve been reading about it, learning from it, and trying myself to remain more connected to the land, more in tune to my environment, and more thoughtful in each thought, word, and action.  Once upon a time, all life truly was sacred.  Native Americans hunted animals in order to survive, yet they had (have) the most beautiful relationship with that animal and it’s spirit.  At one time, killing animals for meat was not inhumane, but rather an intricate dance with the mystery of nature, a weaving together of the vast array of species, all interdependent on one another.  What if I could eat that chicken I craved with the same thoughtfulness?  Would that be so bad?

And Thanksgiving arrived.  As I drove through Seattle before we left, I saw the signs hanging from over passes “Thanksgiving is murder for turkeys.”  True.  It is.  So many turkeys raised and killed just for our slobbery mouths to gobble up.  I knew my sister (we spent Thanksgiving at her house) would not buy just any turkey.  She’s a very thoughtful eater herself, so I knew it was going to be a nicely farmed, locally raised turkey.  ”And gluten free!” she added.  (Side note- some meat is not gluten free.  It is injected with wheat to plump it up.  WHAT?  so dumb.)  In the end, it was a last minute choice.  I closed my eyes and asked my body what it craved.  It wanted that slice of warm, moist, gluten free, free range, locally farmed turkey.  Before eating it, I said a prayer of thanks over it.  Yup, I did.  One of my table-mates looked over, rolled his eyes, and announced to the table, “CChicken is saying a freaking prayer for the spirit of her turkey.”  My brother laughed at me, my dad got a good chuckle, but I did it anyway.  I had to…or I’d eat it with guilt.  I was grateful for the animal that was about to provide some nutrition that my body apparently wanted.  I ate it.  And honestly, I really enjoyed it.  

I have been reading Gluten Free Girl since I arrived here at my sister’s.  I’m finding it absolutely fascinating.  My body and mind and emotions have traveled, more or less, the same basic roller coaster she describes in her book.  She talks about the strange attachments to certain foods, the lethargy of consuming what is actually poison to her body, the healing process, and yes, the return to meat.  She makes a statement that I had come to envision for myself, and wholeheartedly agree with.  When talking about never again having pizza, regular pasta and all those things, she also describes what a gift it has been for her to be forced to live without gluten.  She has been pushed into trying all new foods, new grains, new recipes, and how at this point, every bite she takes, she wants it to be exquisite.  So true.  I no longer have the luxury of noshing on any old thing, tasteless or not.  I have to work harder to make a meal work- but it is so worth it.  I cannot describe it as eloquently as she does, but every bite is so much more magical, every bite so much more nourishing.  It has been wonderful to read her book and relate so easily to her words.  Learning to live gluten free does create freedom and new found wonders.  Food takes on a new meaning; it becomes so much more than a bowl of crappy cereal.

And so, I find myself no longer a vegetarian.  I will not eat any old meat, for certain.  I am a strong believer in the locally grown, naturally sustainable movement, so I will only support my local farmers.  I won’t be eating meat as a focal point of my diet, nor will I want it every day.  I’m not even sure that I’ll ever have lamb again.  Who knows?  But when I find a locally raised, free range, gluten free, antibiotic free, feces free, “I had a happy life” chicken, I will simmer it with rosemary and make garlic mashed potatoes, sauteed kale, and have a gluten free chocolate cake with ice cream for dessert.  And I will enjoy every last morsel without guilt.  I have a sneaky suspicion that only those who are given the gift of a food allergy can think, write, and talk about food with such enthusiasm.  Cooking and eating becomes an integral part of joy and meditation.  

What a gift.

My hope is that with the rise of food allergies, the spotlight put on books such as Gluten Free Girl, and Animal, Vegetable, Miracle, people realize the unhealthy relationship we have with eating meat.  We must change the way animals are raised, they way they are fed, and the way they are slaughtered, or we are going to find ourselves in quite a pickle.  Whether we like it or not, species are interdependent, and we’d better start acting like it.  My point here is as an avid yoga instructor and “I love all animals” human, I am not saying it’s all right to go out and chow down on a Big Mac. I know it is cheaper than nicely raised meat.  If as a whole, we start only consuming meat grown naturally and humanely, farmers will be able to do more of it, and we will be a healthier species.  

This post has turned into something other than what it was intended…I think it is time to sign off today, return another day for all my thoughts on sustainable farming and meat consumption.

Anyway…my turkey was good.  And I think I’ll be eating more later.

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in thanksgiving

Apologies for not having more ‘cchicken written’ posts recently.  I’ve been out of my regular groove- lots of visitors, getting prepared for the holidays coming, and catching up on a few things myself!  In order to express my feelings of gratitude for this beautiful world we get to live in, I must use another Mary Oliver poem.  This one is one of my favorites, for sure.  I do think I say that about many things though…”Oooh fall…my favorite season…OOoh spring, my favorite season….Ooooh, evening, my favorite time of day….OOOh early morning, my favorite time of day…” You get the picture.  You can’t really trust what I say is my favorite; I usually soon find another to be my favorite.  Nevertheless, this is a lovely poem.

                                    This World

I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it

nothing fancy.

But it seems impossible.

Whatever the subject, the morning sun

glimmers it.

The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open

and becomes a star.

The ants bore into the peony bud and there is the dark

pinprick well of sweetness.

As for the stones on the beach, forget it.

Each one could be set in gold.

So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds

were singing.

And the aspen trees were shaking  the sweetest music

 out of their leaves.

And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and

 beautiful silence

as comes to all of us, in little earfuls, if we’re not too

hurried to hear it.

As for spiders, how the dew hangs in their webs

even if they say nothing, or seem to say nothing.

So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe they sing.

So fancy is the world, who knows, maybe the stars sing too,

and the ants, and the peonies, and the warm stones,

so happy to be where they are, on the beach, instead of being

locked up in gold.

Moon setting over Olympic Peninsula

Moon setting over Olympic Peninsula

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a holiday promotion

hello all!  I am going to use today’s post to promote two talented friends of mine, Suz and Ben.  Suz lives in Boston, for now at least, and Ben lives here in Seattle.  Suz is a travel writer with a gift for describing a place with details for common folk to enjoy, much like in Lonely Planet books. She utilizes her unending vocabulary (rudy hux=rude) and her comedic stylings to allow the reader to feel as though she is with Suz on that over night train with smelly old men.  You can read more about her adventures on her blog, http://travelingtravelers.blogspot.com.  

If you travel further into her blog, to a post called: Seattle: Shooting up with a Space Needle,

http://travelingtravelers.blogspot.com/2008/11/seattle-shooting-up-with-space-needle.html

you will find the artistic expression of my photographer friend, Ben.  Photography is one of those things I truly appreciate when I see a good photo…but I have absolutely no idea how to apply what I like about pictures into taking them.  I keep thinking it would be great to have Ben come around and take some regular old pictures of Joe and me- we seem to cut off our heads, forget that light might be an issue in a good picture, and can’t seem to figure out the self timer button just right.  Hmmm. Maybe one day.

If you like what you see on 3 Trooping Travelers, contact me and I can get you in contact with Suz or Ben.  They are both great at what they do…who knows…maybe they can join up and create an extra fun travel book.  (Suz, Ben, I would expect a commission on that, since it was my idea, just now.)

Take advantage of this holiday promotion!

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i am thankful for…

Today was the last day of preschool before the Thanksgiving holiday- a holiday I attempted to bring meaning to for a while.  We culminated our month of ‘thankful’ discussion, tied with a study of the story of Stone Soup, with cooking and eating some good hearty stone soup.  During this time, especially, I am always seeking to share different messages of thanks, various ideas of a blessing, and all sorts of other larger picture ideas to three year olds.  I like to expose them to all of it, regardless of what might stick in their minds or…might not.  You never know.

I most enjoy when they add their own two cents to the larger themes.  Three year olds have a way of bringing an enormous concept back to comprehensible terms.  We read a Native American prayer of Thanksgiving called Giving Thanks, and created books based on the story, while adding a little original flavor, describing something for which we are thankful.  The first three pages of everyone’s book read, “Thank you for the blue water.  Thank you for the green grass.  Thank you for the yellow sun,” and were cut out of construction paper in the shape of the object being thanked.  (that way, a three year old can read it to mom and dad when he or she goes home…early literacy…) Anyhow, the last page was left blank for whatever the child wanted to thank. 

“Thank you for chicken nuggets.”

“Thank you for sandwiches.”

“Thank you for my brother.  I like the W in his name.”

“Thank you for the whole wide world.  Mostly for my mommy.”

“Thank you for ballerinas.”

“Thank you for houses.”

My students reminded me of the importance to give thanks for all things, big and small.  I try to spend time every day listing a few things for which I am grateful.  More often than not, it is the little things that make the list.  The little things that compile a life full of blessings, and an awareness of the beauty and joy all around.

At the very end of the day, we sat in a circle on our special red rug.  I talked in my quiet “I’m serious now” voice, looked each student in the eyes, and said “I am thankful for ____ (so and so).”  When I first started, I thought it was kind of a corny way to end an otherwise hectic day, but as I moved from student to student, I saw how very much it meant to each one.  For an instant, an otherwise hyper three year old was stunned silent, locked eyes with mine, and absorbed a true compliment with pride like I’d never seen!  The passing moment made me realize how much of an effect each of us may have on another…and how easily that impression could be positive instead of negative.

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a good poem

My creative juices aren’t flowing so much right now, but I thought I’d share a great poem by one of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver.

Percy and Books (Eight)

Percy does not like it when I read a book.

He puts his face over the top of it and moans.

He rolls his eyes, sometimes he sneezes.

The sun is up, he says, and the wind is down,

The tide is out and the neighbor’s dogs are playing.

But Percy, I saw.  Ideas!  The elegance of language!

The insights, the funniness, the beautiful stories

that rise and fall and turn into strength, or courage.

Books?  says Percy.  I ate one once, and it was enough.

Let’s go.

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ahhh…babies….

My sweet sweet sweet little niece was here visiting the past few days, so how not to write about her at this point?  She is, without any bias whatsoever, I swear, the most adorable one year old I’ve ever seen.  She laughs, has recently learned to hug, adores dogs and finds the need to inspect their collars, teeth, fur, whatever, she claps when you take a bite of what she has offered you, and she cracks herself up with her silliness.  I think that may be the best part about her.  She does funny things, and does them in order to make others laugh.  She thinks she is a riot.  

Whenever I am around infants and babies, especially perfectly lovable ones like my nugget, they teach me a million life lessons I seem to have forgotten over the course of my young life into adulthood.  She is awed frequently; she makes the most precious sighing noise that indicates her surprise.  Her reaction to new things, and things that aren’t new, but exciting every time she looks at them, reminds me to be amazed more often.

She investigates everything with the intensity of a detective looking for hidden clues.  We spent many a minute examining each and every color of a painting, feeling the texture of different things, splashing water on the slate kitchen floor and finger painting with it- there is never a dull moment.  And she never does anything in order to ‘produce’ something- always for the fun of the moment.

She pauses to cuddle.  There really isn’t a better feeling than having little arms reach to you and just want to cuddle and nuzzle against your neck.  Her contented little coos calm my nerves and remind me how important plain old love and comfort and cuddling are.  

It’s a shame we only get to be a baby once.  A greater shame that when we are baby sized, we have no idea how AWESOME that is.  Babies get it- all we need to do is to love and to be loved.  Once our basic needs are met, we really should be about content with some good old love, and stop trying to be anything more.  Babies have the intrinsic ability to extend their inner light out into the world.  Without careful cultivation, little by little, as we ‘grow up’ we seem to diminish that inner light, and we end up trying too hard instead of living in the beauty of love.

 I wish I could be one again.  Reaching my chubby arms up to be held, eating nice soft warm food, enjoying everything without a care in the world, being open to absolutely everything this marvelous world has to offer us, being nothing but pure love.  I will never be one again- at least not in this lifetime- but I can learn from the one year olds around me, and do the best I can to live my life in the light of love.

And guess what….I get to see her next week for Thanksgiving!  November is shaping up to be a very exciting month indeed.

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getting old

Despite the fact one of my adorable little three year old students recently told me, “Miss Catherine…um…your face looks really old” I had always viewed myself in the same grouping as the college crowd.  I never really thought I was much older than 20.  Recently, however, I’m coming to grips with the fact that I have graduated into that next level of adulthood.  Here are a few reasons why.

1)  Three days ago, as I was walking the puppy, a car load of teenagers went flying around the corner at breakneck speed.  The car skidding on wet leaves, the driver fishtailed in order to get the car back under control, and in a matter of seconds, they came dangerously close to anything and everything that happened to be on the curb.  Luckily, I had crossed the street already, but one minute earlier…

 Like a witness to myself, I suddenly realized I was physically scowling at them as they drove off, laughing at how ‘dangerous’ they were.  I was the old crotchety woman muttering to herself, ‘Damn kids.  Putting the neighborhood in danger.  Someone should put a stop to this.’

2) A few weeks ago, on an otherwise quiet Thursday evening, I was jolted from my cozy position on the couch with the sound of bass thumping from someone’s subwoofer (spelling?) in his bad ass car.  I peeked out the blinds, in classic old lady style, and spied on my neighbors.  A group of youngsters were gathering across the street for what appeared to be a ‘jam session.’  They processed to ‘jam’ into the night as I mulled over when it was appropriate for me to tell them to be quiet.  I decided it wasn’t.  Just because I wanted to go to bed at like 9:00, ok maybe it was 7:30, I don’t know, it didn’t mean the whole neighborhood had to be quiet.  They were young and having fun.  Ahhhh, I remember those days.

3) While I do very much enjoy having a rousing group of friends together, drinking too much, dancing too much, and being very dumb, my idea of a really good time has also morphed into something new.  An evening filled with good food, good friends and family, stimulating conversation and some background jazz works for me.  A bath and a good book works for me.  Playing ball with my puppy works for me.  I’m turning into a huge dork.

4) I have absolutely no idea who 70% of the ‘celebrities’ in crazy celebrity magazines are.  And I don’t give a rat’s ass.

5) I’ve accepted I am who I am, I’m not going to change or “get better,” and that’s A OK with me.  Getting more comfortable in your own skin is a nice advantage to the aging process.

6)  I spent my Saturday afternoon blowing insulation into the attic.  Yup.  Home Depot, Bed Bath and Beyond.  That’s a quality Saturday right there.  

I’m sorry, I’ve got to sign off here…I’ve got to take food out of the oven and change the laundry. Maybe I’ll darn some socks.

I guess I’m not in college anymore.

PS- Don’t look for any posts for a few days…my very squeezable one year old niece will be visiting, and I’m going to be busy kissing, hugging, and pinching.  I’ll be back sometime at the end of the week:)

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JOY!

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grandparents love

As I walked into my kitchen, in the very wee hours of the morning, I had a strong sensation that I needed to write about my grandmother.

Both of my grandmothers were alive when I was a young child; my father’s mom, “Grandma” died when I was pretty young, about 10.  I remember her as a kind woman, but I didn’t know her so well.  I was closer with my mother’s mom, “Grandmother”.  I think from the start, we had a bond, in that we both loved music and dancing and reading and roses and all those things that little girls play in, and older women relish as a part of their spirit.  

I remember once, standing in Grandmother’s kitchen, which of course had a special smell all its own, and showing her my tap routine for the upcoming recital.  At that point, Grandmother showed me her recital piece from decades past- how delighted I was that my Grandmother could tap dance! She was one of my first piano teachers; I keep her old sheet music on my piano now.  We both loved getting up early.  Part of our routine during visits consisted of me getting up extra early, so that I could have a little time alone with Grandmother in the morning, and hear stories about her life, about my grandfather who I only knew for a few brief months.  

Grandmother had a smile that could radiate an entire room.  She frequently wore red lipstick, which only serves to accentuate that sparkly beam of laughter coming from her face.  She let me try on her powder and eye shadow, all special treats of being with Grandmother.  Grandmother loved to wear green.  Apparently, I so abhorred the color green as a young child that I asked her why she would wear such an ugly color.  Ironically, green is now one of my very most favorite colors.  

She had a southern drawl, she called me sugar pie, and she baked the most marvelous blueberry pie this world has ever known. 

After Grandmother died, I was teaching a yoga class for senior women.  I started sobbing at the end of class, and the beautiful women came over to comfort me.  When I explained why I was sad that day, one of them said something that sticks with me always.  ”When my grandmother died, years ago, someone told me that no one loves you quite like a grandparent.”  It’s true.  Although my life is filled with love, the most incredible parents and siblings anyone could ever ask for, in-laws who love and support me, there is something so special about a grandparent.  I see it with my parents and my niece, I see it with my husband and his Yiayia.  

In the past few weeks, every week, one of my friends has lost a grandparent.  I guess we’re just at that age.  I have said the same thing to them.  There is something so special about our relationship with a grandparent.  I think the beauty may lie in the lessons they have to teach us that unravel a stitch at a time.  It may not be clear in the beginning, but little by little we learn there is more of them in us than we ever knew.

I think the greatest lesson my grandmother has left me is in noticing that life is made up of more than our jobs ‘to do.’  Her house was never perfectly spotless, and she wasn’t a ‘career woman.’  But she could still dance her tap routine as an older woman, she loved her doggies, she took coffee back to bed in the morning and read, and she continued to update her CD collection until the time she got sick.  I have learned enough about myself to know that I need to stop my repetative thoughts of “I must…”  and just enjoy what I have.  I feel Grandmother with me quite often.  When I’m getting wrapped up my hamster wheel, she sends me a message in her own way to remind me to check in with my truth of all the blessings in my life.  Although our grandparents eventually have to leave us, their lessons truly do help shape us, and remain alive in each of us.

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a little puppy tale

Before continuing with any more posts about Jersey, the wonder pup, I need to explain the way in which you, the reader, need to read her words and thoughts.  Joey and I are pretty sure that she expresses herself with an accent reminiscent of Al Pacino in Scarface.  She looks at us, innocent and lovingly, but she speaks with the voice of a gangster.  Just so you know for any future references.

Last week, I was doing a few things around the house, and suddenly noticed my ‘things’ were going smoother than usual.  It took me a second to recognize the difference.  I didn’t have a small hairy beast biting my feet and trying to rip off my socks as I moved about.  It was quiet.  It was too quiet.  Something was amiss.

Seeing as how our home is about 700 square feet, there really weren’t that many options as to where she could be.  She was not in any of her usual hiding spots, and I knew she wasn’t outside.  From the corner of my eye, I saw a black lump moving ever so slightly, sticking out of the coat closet.  I walked over, opened the door, and she quickly turned around to face me.  ”Ahhh.  So you have found me.  I did it.  I confess.”  (remember the accent)

The little monster had managed to slide her little paw in the door, opened it, batted down my coat that I had hung on the inside of the closet, post walk, and smashed her little snozz into my left pocket in order to eek out the very last crumbs of the treats that reside in that left pocket.  My coat looked like road kill on the floor, and Jersey, the wonder pup, was licking her chops satisfactorily.  

All I could think of was that line from Anchorman…”Baxter, I’m not even mad at you.  In fact, I’m impressed.”

P.S.  The other night, as we were watching the Dog Whisperer, Jersey tried to climb in the TV when she saw a scene with a bunch of dogs running in a park.  She literally tried to climb the TV stand and whine and paw her way into the party.  It was pretty great.

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