21 Days of Get Your Shit Together

They're starting another 21-day challenge at my gym today.  You sign up, you commit to workout and to eat well, and you track your progress.  As the single most competitive person alive, I fall victim to these challenges all the time.  I either out-compete everyone and get super shapely for those 21 days and then reward myself for the next 30.  Or, more often, I set totally unrealistic goals for myself and then fail epically to meet them.  Sound familiar?  Who, me?

But it's January, and I ate so much bread and drank so much wine in France and Germany that when we got back, I swore I wouldn't even want them anymore.  Tell that to the cereal and toast I had for breakfast this morning.  So, I'm challenging.  I'm challenging at the gym, and I'm challenging myself, too.  Most of the people I live with will also tell you that I'm challenging. 

Here's the plan:

Much of what was going on in this picture was a to-do list of all the projects, piddly and not, that I have lined up.  Many of them are small, some of them are easy, all of them are achievable. See that composition book there?  That's THE LIST as it looks today.  THE LIST changes and evolves, as you might imagine, as things are completed (a/k/a I write in pencil so I can erase things that I don't want to do).  THE LIST includes things as small as e-mail the landscape guy about the weevils in the agaves and things as large as 

stain and recover the new (old) chairs for the dining room.  That I bought in 2010.  Whatevs.

So, in addition to the godforsaken challenge at the gym, I am setting myself a 21-Day Get Your Shit Together challenge.  I will purposefully engage in one of the projects on this list every day, reminding myself that not all projects will be completed every day.  So, instead of The Project, I will have the projects.  

AND I am resolving to blog about it. Everyday.  For 21 days.  I've been hot and cold on these pages lately.  Excusable?  Yes.  Understandable?  Yes.  It's all okay, but I do love this blog, and I believe in what I'm trying to do here, so I need to back up my belief with some commitment.  They say it takes 21 days to make a habit.  

We'll see.

Dear Ina,

Okay.  I'm back.  And I'm sorry.  It seems like having no actual job would make it easier to sit your ass down and write, but apparently  I'm wrong. I've made a shitload of notes.  I've started some stories, but other things got in the way.  I'll start filling in the gaps as I can, but tonight, it's time for a love letter to Ina.  Because, let's face it, only Ina can bring you back from the depths of writer's block (or laziness.  Whatever. You say potato).

Dear Ina, 

I love you.  There, I said it.  You probably already knew that since I cook from your books and link to your recipes way more than anyone else.  But I love you more than that.  I love that all your recipes come out looking just like they do in the book.  I love it that you DEMAND that people enjoy themselves while cooking, that you insist that I buy some parts of my dinner party and focus on some really good food.  I love that you've been married to your high school sweetheart for 44 years.  

And mostly, I love it that you're a little chubby.  I love it a lot.  Because no one that likes food and wine as much as we do (see how I called us "we"?) is going to look like Giada.  All due respect to her, but sister ain't really eating all that pasta, if you know what I mean.  I love it that you're real, and that you make fun of yourself.  And I really, really, really love your Basil Chicken Hash, which BOTH of my children ate the shit out of tonight.

Love,
Me

Why I Cook, Part Un

My Mom


My mom is awesome.  I'm saying that because she is awesome, and also because she is reading this. She loves my blog.  She checks every day to see if I've posted anything.  I told her that there was a way to have it email her when I posted something new.  But she said that would ruin it.  She likes checking because of the possibility that something might be there.  Or at least that's what she said.  I'm sure it has nothing to do with the fact that she doesn't know what I'm talking about.

All of this makes me feel really good because my mom is really, really smart.  She is gentle and kind, a good listener, and a great audience.  She reads all the time, has lots of degrees, and has a very low tolerance for bad writing.  So, for her to say she loves my blog means a lot.  She is also my mom.  And moms have to be supportive of their children.  And sometimes they have to not tell them that their shirt makes them look like a hobo.  Wait.

Anyway, the fact that my mom may or may not like my blog about food and gardening and housekeeping is, to be honest, a little, teeny bit surprising.  I've had many people in my life say, "You love to cook so much, your mom must have been a great cook." "Did you learn to cook from your mom?" "You must have eaten really well as a child."

Well, here it is, in a nutshell.  I wish I could claim first dibs on this story, but my brother can claim that prize.  And no, he doesn't read my blog.  But he loves me anyway.

The Coffee Cake


It was 1993.  It was the first Thanksgiving that I had ever spent away from home.  T and I were a couple of months away from getting married, and we went up to Dallas to be with his family.  I should never have gone.  Not because I didn't enjoy myself, but because I missed the most legendary and epic story of our family.  Well, except for the one where my dad ran over me in a motorboat.  He doesn't really like me to tell that one.

Anyway, my brother, J, has always gotten to have a Sara Lee Butter Streusel Coffee Cake on holidays. I liked the pecan one because it has frosting, but my parents don't love me as much as they love him, so most of the time, they "forgot" to get the pecan one, and J. always, always got to have his Butter Streusel.

Anyway, J and my parents had to muddle through Thanksgiving without me.  I can't even remember what their Thanksgiving plans were, but J. was going to have his Butter Streusel coffee cake regardless.  So, he turned on the oven to preheat it for the coffee cake.  And probably, knowing him, went back to bed.  Afterwhile (yes, that's a word), a discernible smoky smell began to emanate from the kitchen.  J. went to investigate and found, wait for it, the remains of the Sara Lee Butter Streusel Coffee Cake from the previous Christmas.

My parents hadn't turned on the oven in 11 months.

Right Now


Right now, my mom is giggling and wiping tears from her eyes AND protesting that she fed us really well.  And she did.  She fed us whole grains and lean meats.  We sat at the table most nights and talked.  Like a real family.  We had the dearest housekeeper, Walter Lee, who would cook meals to be reheated.  And my mom had a few special dishes up her sleeves.  How you choose to interpret special is up to you, but for her, they were a sacrifice that she was willing to make for her family.

She tried.  She really did.  But my mom doesn't like cooking and never liked cooking, and that's okay.  Just because you give birth to someone doesn't change what you're good at.  What my mom is good at is back-scratching, laughing, reading, smiling, listening, comforting, singing, praying, drinking coffee and reading the paper, doing dishes, keeping her grandchildren, traveling, spa-ing, and loving.

Those are mighty fine qualities.

I love you, Mom!

Dear Maudies,

How I love you.  How I love your tortilla chips and spicy salsa.  How I love the queso even though it doesn't have any discernible peppers or other bits to entice me.  Or perhaps because it doesn't have any vegetables in it to spoil it.


I miss you, Maudies.  I miss the Maggie's Plate with the one beef taco and the one cheese enchilada, yes, with onions, duh, and the chips with queso.  Didn't I just mention queso as an appetizer?  Yes, and I'm having it with my meal, too.


I drive by you almost every day.  Some days I get really close to you because you are on the way to math tutoring.  And you are right by that grocery store that I only go to in emergencies and on Sunday afternoons when I just need a couple of things because it is too expensive and, therefore, never crowded.


I want you to know it's not you.  It's me.  It's not you.  IT'S ME!


You see, we want different things.  You want me to eat there, and I cannot because I am on the project.  I know it's not fair to ask you to wait for me.  You deserve to be happy with your other paying diners and people who come for happy hour and free chips.  But I will always love you.  I think about you everyday.  You will always be in my heart.  I just wish you were in my tummy, too.


Love,
Me

Small Victories

So, we're back.  We had a wonderful time, if 33 percent shorter a time than expected. We had pool time.  We had spring training baseball.

We had the Phoenix Zoo, which was great.  Our super-cute waitress had told us it was only "okay."  Then she asked us if we'd been to the San Diego Zoo.  We hadn't.  "Oh, then," she said, "you'll love it.  Everything's kinda lame after San Diego."  We loved it.


We made some friends.

And I will call you Squishy.  And you will be mine.

Just like at home.

In the car on the way to the airport, G said, "I think I'm ready to go back on the project.  I don't feel so well."  Score.


She's not kidding.  Let me just tell you, turns out that this project is about more than saving money and living sustainably.  It's about much more than that.  Why?  Well, at the risk of going all Supersize Me on you, there's nothing "regular" about that regular-sized combo meal.  Ugh.  I can't button any of my pants.  My face is a mess.  I've got zits in some places and freaky dry scaly patches in others.  It's like Jurrassic Park IV.  The kids feel like shit and so do T and I.  And we did not go all crazy vaca at every meal.  Yes, there were some desserts.  There were some sandwiches.  But there were also salads.  And vegetables.  And some lean meats that did not necessarily come on a bun.


There is something that goes wrong with that much eating out.  I don't know if it's salt content or preservatives or just portion size, but there's almost no way, no matter how mindful you are, to eat "right" when you're forced to eat out for every meal.  Yuck.


And if G is glad to be back on the project, you know it's big.


Welcome home!

Unintended Consequences and Quality Control

It's amazing how much your dishwasher says about the quality of the food you're eating.  If you're eating out all the time, your dishwasher contains only coffee cups and water glasses.  And wine glasses.  Not even water glasses if you're drinking soda or boxed drinks all the time.  And wine glasses.  If you're eating take out all the time, your dishwasher sports only cups and silverware.  Did I mention wine glasses?  If you are cooking every meal for a family of four, you're are doing dishes constantly.  I HAD NO IDEA.  One of the unintended consequences of this project is the beating the dishwasher is taking.  Which got me thinking:  how much styrofoam, plastic, foil, and paper are we wasting every time we "run by the Sonic real quick?"  (Ummmm.  Sonic).  So, as soon as I can get my Master-of-the-Blog-Universe friend over here for a tutorial, I'm going to get a counter for  each dishload.

As of today:  1

So, how's this all going to work?  How do we really KNOW you're not eating out?  I've decided to post under the QC tab exactly what we had for dinner the previous night.  If it turned out okay, and I didn't steal it from anyone, I'll post a recipe.  If I used someone else's recipe, I'll post the link.  If I'm putting the love out there, I might as well share it.