Tales of a Bohemian Hijabi

In The "Garden"

2010-06-12T15:28:00.007-04:00

I have failed yet again at my attempt to grow basil hydropnically. This was my second attempt and I was so sure I had gotten it right this time. Submerge half of the roots in water, the directions told me. So I did. Why didn’t it work out for me? I am convinced that I am a failure when it comes to herb gardening. This is the only herb I have tried to grow, but I can’t imagine I could do better with anything else if I can’t grow something as simple as basil in a vase of water.

My husband and I have gotten pretty serious about the way we eat and the way we feed our children. Going completely organic is out of the question financially. Who can afford that with a large family? But we can certainly support the local farmers, who often refrain from using pesticides but happen not to be “certified organic” growers. I have discovered that even eating organic, cage free chicken doesn’t always have to be expensive. I recently found two chickens at Whole Foods for $12. What a steal! I get lucky and find deals like that from time to time. I also picked up Blue Diamond almond milk, which was on sale 2 for $5. For anyone who might be reading, don’t give up on eating well. It can be a struggle in the beginning. I am still trying to find a happy medium. But there is always a way. Search for coupons and giveaways online (Horizon organic milk often has coupons on their website) and check out stores like Whole Foods regularly for sales. For Memorial Day weekend, they had whole rotisserie chickens for $4.99 each! That’s even cheaper than what you would find at your local superstore.

To get back to my original purpose of this entry, I still plan to make another attempt at a hydroponic herb garden. If that doesn’t work, I supposed a regular herb garden would work just as well. I am purchasing organic plants from my local organic grocer (not trying to provide free advertisement by mentioning their name a thousand times in one blog post) and I will try to keep you posted on my progress. In the meantime, here is my poor little basil plant, on its deathbed as a result of my lack of gardening knowledge:

Mini Me

2010-06-06T14:04:00.002-04:00

Kids are wonderful, small people. When mine do things that make my blood boil (like spraying themselves down with cooking spray), I remind myself that not everyone is as fortunate as I am in being able to experience the joys of motherhood. There is nothing sweeter that the homemade cards with crayon-drawn hearts and flowers that you will get on Mother's Day, along with the bouquet that someone picks from the neighbor's flower garden. It's the little things that bring a smile to my face. My daughter came into the kitchen today to tell me that I was the best mother she ever had. Then she clued me in on a little secret: "Being nice to your mom will make her share her food with you." She then proceeded to reach into my bag of trail mix to help herself to a handful. That warm fuzzy feeling was nice while it lasted.

I've Got a New Attitude

2010-05-22T12:56:00.003-04:00

I don’t care for mirrors. I try to avoid them by any means necessary. When I happen to pass by full length mirror, I almost feel as though it is mocking my somehow by accentuating the things I could have sworn were hidden, like the extra back fat I didn’t realize I had. But today I went to the gym and forced myself to stare at my reflection while I did 3 sets of bicep curls. Instead of criticizing my body the way I normally do, I took the time to appreciate the things that tend to get over looked. I never realized that my frame was actually rather small and that once I drop the extra adipose tissue, I may have a pretty nice shape. My forearms are strong and muscular and my quadriceps are very well defined. I don’t feel great about every inch of my body, but I am pretty darned proud of what I have managed to accomplish by treating myself the way I deserve to be treated. I stopped looking at exercise as a chore and started looking at it as the energy boost that it turns out to be. I am in love with the after burn I feel in my thighs after a lunge-fest and the rosy glow of my cheeks after a serious cardio session. If exercise and eating well makes me feel this good, why haven’t I been doing it all along? It seems like common sense to promote the habits that you benefit from and to discard the ones you don’t. I don’t need chapstick when I am properly hydrated, I don’t feel sluggish when I have cut out simple carbohydrates, and I don’t feel miserable when I don’t stuff myself. This journey of weight loss is so much more than a physical thing for me. It is a mental and emotional journey as well. I don’t think I liked myself very much before. The abuse I subjected my body to evidence of that. I have learned to appreciate the body that I have been given, with all its parts in good working order. I love myself enough to know that I deserve to be happy.

I Will Gladly Pay You Tuesday For a Hamburger Today

2010-05-07T23:25:00.005-04:00

Like many people I know, I grew up economically disadvantaged. It wasn’t something I was aware of at the time, because everyone around me lived under the same circumstances. We were a proud group of poor people though. The lawns on our street were always well manicured and my mother always took the time to make sure my homemade dresses were clean and pressed and my hair looked nice. It didn’t matter that we didn’t have a late model vehicle and that steak was never an option for dinner. At least it didn’t matter to the children. We were more than satisfied with taking turns riding up and down the street on the one bicycle owned by the little girl next door. When we tired of that, jump rope was always an entertaining backup.

My mother could make a miracle out of nothing in the kitchen, and I certainly inherited that skill from her. She would boil a box of noodles and mix them up with a little olive oil and whatever spices she could put her hands on and the flavors always ended up being nothing short of amazing. She was proud of her resourcefulness, and had every right to be.

One day I came home from school to see her staring blankly into the refrigerator. I stepped from behind the door to see what had captured her attention so intently. There was nothing inside but a jar of mayonnaise and an empty ice cube tray. For the first time, my mother couldn’t make a miracle happen. The look of defeat in her face was palpable. Her normally twinkling brown eyes were dark and sad, and it was difficult to look into them. “Keta’s mom got a bunch of food at the pantry the other day,” I told her. She slammed the refrigerator door shut. “I am not feeding my family from somebody’s handouts!” She paced back and forth through the kitchen, checking and re-checking every single cabinet and drawer. She let out a sigh of defeat. “Put your coat back on,” she told me. She slipped on her heavy coat and put a pair of Daddy’s socks on her hands, then we headed out the door.

She was completely silent on the way to the pantry. I was, too. There was nothing I could say to make her feel any better about what she had been reduced to. As we trudged through the snow, I could see her out of the corner of my eye, looking around as if to make sure no one could see where she was headed. The pantry was in the basement of a church a few blocks away from the house. I stared at the mint green colored cement block walls as we waited in line for our package. My stomach growled, and I shuffled my feet around to keep anyone from hearing. Mom stepped up to the table with her head hung low as a heavyset woman with beautiful chocolate skin handed her two brown paper bags. I grabbed the lightest one, and we headed home.

Dinner that night was the best we had in a long time. Mom made beef stew over rice, and there were canned peaches for dessert. I’ll never forget how well I slept, having gone to bed with a full belly for the first time in quite a while.

Long Lost Friend

2010-04-24T12:15:00.007-04:00

When I think back to what almost feels like a lifetime ago, I can remember being a lady. I recall taking the time out to give myself manicures and pedicures put some kohl around my eyes, and actually iron my clothes before I put them on. I can’t tell you what happened to that lady, because we lost touch a long time ago. When I had my first son, she stuck around for a while. She was determined that a woman could be a mom and a diva all at the same time. And she was right. I mastered the art of carrying an infant car seat in one hand and a Kenneth Cole diaper bag in the other, all while balancing on a pair of high heeled boots. When I gave birth to the twins a few years later, the lady’s visits became fewer and further between. And then without giving me so much as a two weeks notice, she quit. It was as though I forgot how to function. I began using my hijab as an excuse not to comb, or even condition my hair the way I used to. My fingernails were jagged and eyes were bare. I stopped caring about style when selecting clothes and just settled for what fit. I became what that lady swore she would never allow me to become: a frumpy mom, who has been without a pedicure for so long that I could probably use my toenails as weapons. For me, getting dolled up means using lotion, and ironing my clothes before I put them on. I don’t think I was completely aware of what happened to me. White sweat socks were never fashionable with a dress, but somehow motherhood made it acceptable.

This morning, I walked up to the double doors to go into my office when I really took a good look at my reflection in it. Wouldn’t you know, that lady came back and tapped me on the shoulder? She told me to take a good look at how I let all her hard work come undone. I studied my dull complexion and my neglected body. For a second, I did not recognize the person looking back at me. How did I get sucked into the world of mom-jeans and ill-fitting shoes? And why have I replaced my nice purses with a recyclable grocery bag? I knew at that very moment that the lady was back to stay for a while. It’s as though a good friend returned after a long journey. Boy, am I glad to see her.

Chew on That

2010-04-15T22:44:00.004-04:00

Trying to eat clean, healthy food has made me realize something I think I have known all along: I don’t like breakfast. It’s not that I dislike eating in the morning. Nothing gets me going like a nice savory meal shortly after I get out of bed. But the thought of cereal is almost repulsive to me. And pancakes? Fughettaboutit. A hot bowl of oatmeal has always left me yearning for something else. I could never figure out what was missing, but then it dawned on me. My mouth was missing the wonderful flavors of my beloved garlic, dash of sea salt, olive oil, fresh basil, and onion. As a person who is attempting to improve my health, I have to be mindful of the things I put into my mouth. Long gone are the days where a slice or two (or three) of pizza was the way I started my day. I am forced to eat with purpose now. My body requires a certain number of nutrients to function properly and I have to find a way to fit that all into my calorie budget. But does that mean a lifetime of cold cereal and milk? Or even eggs and toast? I had an epiphany this morning while choking down oatmeal with peanut butter for the 5000^th day in a row. It’s okay if the food you eat is actually enjoyable. Yes, the ultimate purpose of food is to fuel our bodies, but isn’t it possible for it to taste good at the same time? Is there really anything wrong with a bison burger on a whole wheat bun for breakfast? Why does all that iron-laden goodness have to be reserved for the later part of the day? I think breakfast has been getting the short end of the stick for far too long now. From this day forward, I am swearing off oatmeal for breakfast. Life is too short to consume things that don’t tickle my taste buds. From this day forward, I pledge never to sit in front of a bowl of cold cereal when a good steak is really what I am craving. Tomorrow, I plan to roast some asparagus in the morning and have it alongside a piece of grilled chicken. And the day after, I might even have a baked sweet potato. I vow to eat only what I enjoy, and to thoroughly enjoy what I eat. So, there.

Add It To The List

2010-02-20T15:10:00.002-05:00

Yes, I know. I have a lot of nerve showing my “face” here when I have not kept my promise of checking in regularly with updated weight loss stats. I do have a good excuse: there are not many updates. I am down seven pounds so far and could possibly have achieved greater numbers by now if I were not so determined to consume ridiculous amounts of simple carbohydrates. I have toyed with the idea of trying something extreme to purge all the chemical-laden goodies from my system, but apparently I lack the willpower stay away from crusty loaves of Italian bread slathered with pesto and goat cheese. Now that I say that out loud, it really doesn’t sound too bad. Nonetheless, that is not the purpose of my post today. I would like to share yet another positive culinary experience. My husband and I decided to pay a visit to Brio Tuscan Grille restaurant located inside the Mall at Millennia recently. When we walked in, I was immediately impressed by the cleanliness of the open kitchen. Of course we all expect the kitchen to be clean when we dine out but after viewing several episodes of Chef Ramsey’s “Kitchen Nightmares”, I never know what may be lurking in places not visible to the public eye. Our server, Benjamin, was pleasant enough. He smiled and appeared un-fazed by the emotionless, “food critic-like” expression my husband managed to maintain during our entire visit. The atmosphere of the restaurant was beautiful, its walls covered shades of rust and burgundy. Oriental style runners lined the wooden floors between each row of tables and booths and the lights lit the room enough for us to see what we were eating, but at the same time were dim enough to provide a relaxing environment. The decor was very Old World, with a touch of modernity where necessary.

I am not well versed in Italian cuisine, so the menu did intimidate me initially. After looking it over for a few minutes, I settled on shrimp and crab cakes with roasted vegetables, while my husband, being the pasta man that he is, ordered linguini with seared sea scallops. One thing I would mention is that you should not come to this restaurant expecting to bring home a large doggy bag. The portions are actually closer to recommended serving guidelines than some of the super sized plates that other places may offer. I actually appreciated this because I would rather enjoy my entire meal without feeling the need to undo the button on my pants. Being quite a fan of roasted vegetables, I dove into those before even touching the shrimp and crab cakes. The carrots, zucchini, red peppers, and tomatoes were not a group of vegetables I would have thought to combine, but delicious. They flavor was perfect; seasoned just enough to enhance the natural flavor without camouflaging it completely. The shrimp and crab cakes were drizzled with a citrus glaze and the taste was so outstanding, that my toes curled with each bite. Benjamin received an A+ for service, stopping by to check on us frequently and never letting the beverage in our glasses fall below the halfway point. After we finished our food (and let me tell you, it was hard to resist licking that remaining citrus sauce straight off the plate), the server brought a plate of desserts much to our delight, and knowledgeably described each offering. Not wanting to overindulge, we each opted for cute little pots of mocha and caramel crème brulee topped with fresh whipped cream. Mine came garnished with chocolate ribbons, my husband’s with a drizzle of caramel. Each tiny spoonful that I ate served as motivation to come back for another visit as soon as possible.
The entire experience was very pleasant. The wait staff was professionally dressed and groomed. Hey, that’s worth mentioning for sure. I have been to places where the employees appeared to have been plucked straight from a farm. If I had a choice, I would visit Brio Tuscan Grille again without question. The prices were reasonable and there was no shortage of flavor in the menu. I am happy to add one more name to my list of notable eateries in Orlando. That list is still rather short, so my quest continues.

Pounds For Chemo

2010-01-26T01:41:00.002-05:00

Well, today is the big day. I have decided to embark on a twelve week challenge with some lovely ladies I met over the course of the past year. A challenge of what, you ask? Losing weight, of course! What else could an over weight woman such as myself possibly compete in? The challenge is fairly informal. We are simply a group of women competing to see who can make the most impressive transformation in her physique over the course of 12 weeks. At the end of the challenge, the winner is chosen by vote from a group of fellow clean eaters. That winner not only gets bragging rights, but also has the pleasure of selecting a charity to which the “losers” must each donate $20. The charity I have chosen is St. Jude. I admire the fact that they never turn a child away from cancer treatment, regardless of a family’s inability to cover the expenses. I could not think of a more deserving cause to donate to, and I am really hoping I can pull through for those babies. On the side, I have also been able to convince a few co workers to pledge money for each pound that I lose. The highest pledge so far is $5 per pound. When I say that out loud, it makes me feel like an expensive piece of poultry.
My day so far has gone as well as anyone could expect from a woman who has never been fit in her life. I packed too little food, drudged through my 30 minute elliptical workout, and I am now suffering from a hypoglycemia-induced headache. People will always say:” You didn’t put the weight on overnight, so you can’t possibly expect it to come off that quickly.” And I get that. I am not looking to lose 10 pounds in 48 hours by eating cookies and drinking laxative juice. I want to eat well, work out, and enjoy the challenge. But it isn’t so enjoyable to me right now as I sit here waiting for Advil to kick in. Perhaps I was a little overzealous in the gym. It’s difficult not to be. I am terrified of failing. I have to report my weight and measurements weekly, and I am sure a week without a change will probably devastate me to the point of quitting.
To anyone reading this blog (and I am pretty sure no one is, but just in case), feel free to join my cause. I will report the changes in my weight and measurements regularly. At the end of these 12 weeks, you can make a donation based on the amount per pound that you pledge. A fellow contestant gave me some information on the American Cancer Society that I was not aware of previously, so I am asking that you make a choice between the two organizations. Of course, I am still pulling for St. Jude, but the American Cancer Society’s contribution to cancer research is pretty darned impressive, so I can’t leave them out. When the time comes, I will post the addresses to which you can mail checks, as well as the websites that you can visit to make your donations via credit or debit card. Until then, I am out of here. Never eat chili from a vending machine. The gastrointestinal effects can be extremely unpleasant. Oh, well. You have to make mistakes in order to learn from them, right? Tune in next time for more tips on how not to be successful in a 12 week challenge.

Man 1, Food 0

2010-01-06T22:49:00.003-05:00

Coming from a place whose diversity in food offerings is as wide as can possibly be, I found Orlando’s dining scene to be a terrible disappointment. Of course, there is always someone who raves about how “you just have to try pizza at such and such a place, it’s just like New York style pizza”, but I stopped getting my hopes up. No, there is no New York style pizza here in Orlando. The Italian food all seems to revolve around canned tomato paste. And don’t even get me started on French cuisine. I can’t tell you what I wouldn’t give for a croissant that wasn’t purchased in bulk at Sam’s Club and then passed off as homemade. Thankfully, there are a few places worthy of a repeat visit. One of those places I discovered on the last day of 2009 was Toojay’s Deli.

I believe in giving credit where credit is due and let me tell you, Toojays earned my utmost respect last Thursday. My husband and I had an afternoon to spend without children, so we decided to stop in for lunch. The atmosphere was nothing fancy. Each wall was lined with decent sized booths and a row of tables was arranged in the middle of the floor. We were seated at a table by a waitress I later found out was from Long Island. I opened up the menu and was impressed by the selections, but was hesitant that this establishment could deliver on the promises it made in the descriptions of each dish. I was in the mood for something sandwich-y, so I ordered a bagel with lox and cream cheese. I figured there was no way to screw up something as simple as lox. My husband was intrigued by a sandwich known as the Jay-normous, which boasted one and a half pounds of corned beef and pastrami. I snickered to myself when he actually placed the order for it, knowing we would end up bringing home something to feed to the birds. The manager came over and paid his respects to the man brave enough to attempt consumption of the largest sandwich they made. He was friendly, asking if we were from New York. Apparently my order gave me away.

My bagel arrived the way it would from a true deli: lightly toasted with red onion, tomato, and lettuce on the side, accompanied by a fresh fruit salad. I began to let my guard down a bit. The last time I had lox was at a Jewish deli in Buffalo. My Toojays bagel unexpectedly gave it a run for its money. When the server placed my husband’s plate in front of him, the gasps around the room were audible. This monster of a sandwich truly did contain the meat that the menu promised it would. The corned beef and pastrami were layered neatly between two hand-cut slices of rye bread. Each half was held together by a steak knife, for surely no toothpick was up to the task. Hubby licked his lips as he prepared for the epic battle of man versus food. He offered me a slice of pastrami before he got started. I closed my eyes and could imagine myself at Buffalo’s Golden Corner, the last place I enjoyed a slice of deli meat so intensely. Much to my surprise, my husband finished the sandwich along with its accompaniments of coleslaw and steak fries in 10 minutes. He never even bothered to ask for mayo, it was just that flavorful. He was disappointed to find that there was no free t-shirt or bumper sticker for his victory, but raved about the sandwich to the manager, who offered to buy our dessert. My banana cake arrived on a chilled plate garnished with swirls of chocolate and caramel sauce. The cake was filled with layers of banana cream and topped with a ganache frosting. Hubby’s Killer Chocolate arrived in a similar manner, topped with freshly homemade whipped cream. I was so head over heals in love at this point, that I would have been willing to sign a contract promising never to visit another deli in the city.

We gratefully paid our bill and left a generous tip for the server, vowing to come back as soon as possible. For the hour that I sat in Toojays, I forgot that I was in Orlando. I underestimated their ability to deliver culinary greatness, and was proven wrong a thousand times over. I am still on a quest for an edible plate of lasagna, but my search for a quality sandwich has ended.

Is This Me Talking?

2009-11-24T08:38:00.003-05:00

I never thought I would hear myself say it. I miss Buffalo. All my life, I eagerly anticipated the moment that I would break free from the city of dilapidated storefronts and an abandoned steel mill. I couldn’t wait to relocate to a progressive city where employment was plentiful, a city that time didn’t seem to forget. But as I sit in the shade of a palm tree in beautiful Orlando, I feel an aching emptiness inside me. I can’t fully explain the tug that I feel at my heart when I see come across a picture of the magnificent Richardson Complex, or when I reminisce about Saturday nights spent at Spot Coffee. While Buffalo certainly has its downs, there is no other city quite like it. Yes, it has been in a recession for the past 30 years. If you drive down many streets on the east side, you will see houses that have been abandoned by slumlords and forgotten by the city, surrounded by what could pass for small jungles. You will likely see a sofa sitting on more than one porch, and a clunker in the driveway. The bitter cold is enough to send one into a deep depression. At the same time, the sense of community in Buffalo is something that you would never understand without having lived there. I remember the days of heavy snowfalls that exceeded a foot in depth, when the streets were so treacherous that a driving ban was put in place. Neighbors would step outside of their doors bundled in layers and armed with shovels, ready to clear a path for whoever needed such. When they were finished piling snow into small mountains on each front lawn, a kind soul was bound to offer hot chocolate to the hard workers. I think growing up in Buffalo had me duped into believing that this was simply the way of human beings. Everyone bound together to make the city, the world, a better place.
When I set foot on Florida soil, I was astounded by her beauty. The lush green leaves of the palms against a crisp blue sky in the middle of January were better than I ever could have imagined. I took my heavy winter coat off to feel the warm air against my skin. I was home. I said the words out loud as if to convince myself that I was not dreaming. I was home. I was so excited to be in Florida, I could barely contain myself. I couldn’t help but smile at everyone I passed. Slowly, I began to notice that those smiles were not returned. People almost seemed to view my friendliness as an intrusion. How could this be? This was one of the most breathtaking cities in the country, yet it was not reflected in the personalities of its inhabitants. In my three years of residence in Orlando, I have experienced a definite lack of community. That is the only way I can describe it, the best way to explain the menacing stares you will often receive when you happen to look different than the people around you, the hours that you can stand beside a car on the highway with smoke pouring from under the hood and not have a single person stop to offer a helping hand. “Welcome to Orlando, the City Beautiful”, a sign beckons upon entering city limits. What the sign doesn’t tell you is that a deep rooted hatred of anything outside of the ordinary resides here. It doesn’t warn you about going down the wrong country road after sunset. It doesn’t speak of the kind of racial prejudice that we thought died in the 50’s. Don’t get me wrong, Orlando is not a complete disaster. Its Farmer’s Markets will put those in many other cities to shame. The fact that you can barbecue in February without having to shovel a path to the grill is pretty cool, too. And nothing beats being able to witness the launch of a space shuttle up close and personal. With all that being said though, it is still not my Buffalo. There are no red and orange maple leaves lining the trees in the fall, no sledding in the winter time, and no Wegmans. I have yet to find a place that sells cannolis as decadent as the ones at Dolce on Elmwood Avenue. Most importantly, there are no returned smiles.

Change

2009-11-18T06:42:00.003-05:00

It’s amazing how quickly your body can go downhill when you aren’t paying attention. Skip the gym for a few days in a row, and suddenly, it doesn’t seem as important as it truly is. You think to yourself, “I don’t have to go. If I watch what I eat, I will be fine.” But when you work and go to school full time in addition to taking care of four children and being a decent wife, are you really going to eat right? To be honest, I don’t feel like being bothered. More nights than I care to admit, dinner consists of a stop at the drive-thru of McDonald’s on the way home from picking the kids up at daycare. Because you can’t see the havoc it causes on the inside of your body, you don’t think about it too much. So you get home and unwrap your burger while sitting in front of the computer, plugging away at an assignment due before midnight. You take a second to look down at the crumbs remaining in the wrapper, and don’t even remember chewing.

This is the story of my life; too many meals eaten in between events that I can’t even recall. And it doesn’t dawn on me until 50 pounds later that maybe things got a bit out of hand. My jeans have been pushed to the back of the closet and their space has been filled by anything with an elastic waist. I try to pretend not to notice how out of breath I am now after simply walking from the car to the front door. Yes, things are bad. And I know I need to make a change, so I’ll start first thing in the morning. For tonight, I’ll go ahead and finish up that tres leches cake to keep it from going to waste. Oh, and the last of those Pringles. This is the mentality that has me classified as a morbidly obese woman. I am always starting tomorrow, and subconsciously acknowledge that I am not capable of such a change and may as well enjoy life to the fullest. Is that what I am doing? Enjoying life to the fullest? Not being able to take my children to the playground because my knees ache too badly to be on them for long periods of time, having to spend insane amounts of money on clinical strength deodorant because the regular stuff no longer holds me over, and having my children get into fights at daycare defending their “fat mommy’s honor” doesn’t quite fit my idea of living life to the fullest.

It’s one thing not to take pride in myself, but my children deserve the best of what I have to offer. For that reason, change starts today, not tomorrow. Today, I will put on my gym shoes and spend 30 quality minutes on the elliptical. Today, I will think of each item I put into my mouth as fuel for my organs, not my taste buds. It is easy to get overwhelmed by the fact that I need to lose about 120 pounds to get myself back into a healthy range. It’s enough to make me want to forget all about getting healthy and crack open a pint of Ben & Jerry’s. So I am not thinking about losing 120 pounds. I am thinking about getting to a point where I can ride a bicycle with my children, walk up a flight of stairs without my lungs collapsing, and becoming the health nut that I know is buried deep down inside of me somewhere. Will it be difficult? I am sure it will be. But a friend once said to me: “You have to dig deep. Find your mojo, and fight with everything you’ve got!” So that’s my plan. I am overcoming myself to become my better self. Today, it is no longer about reaching my destination- it’s about enjoying my journey.