Well, we left the house in a sort of rush on Friday to try to evade the get-out-of-town traffic. We didn’t do a very good job and it took far to long to get to the lake than we had hoped. Oh well. The busy morning also delayed me from announcing the winner of the Skip Hop Zoo Little Kid Backpack. Oops.
I did manage to at least choose the winner before we left for the weekend(and the winner is Deborah Gardner. Congratulations Deborah! Check your email for instructions on how to claim your prize.) But as a consolation prize, I have a never-let-you-down recipe for allergy friendly crispy treats. I figure disappointment deserves chocolate, right?
Plus, when things don’t turn out the way I planned or hoped or intended, chocolate helps me deal–especially when its made from a thoroughly dependable, never-fail sort of recipe.
Love,
Scratch
Gooey Cocoa Crispy Treats
These are basically that classic crispy rice treats we all know how to make, but my version is gooey-er than its traditional counterpart because I that’s the way I like it. I used cocoa crispy rice instead of the plain ones because, well–do I really need to give a reason to use chocolate? Since these are gluten free, dairy free, and nut free (and super easy to make), they are a great treat to turn to if allergies are an issue. Beware that not all crispy rice cereals are gluten free, so make sure to buy a box that explicitly states it is gluten free if gluten is an issue for you (I used Mom’s Best Crispy Cocoa Rice Cereal in this recipe). Otherwise, of course–use whatever crispy rice cereal you like.
Ingredients:
12 oz. marshmallows
1/4 cup Melt Organic Buttery Spread (or Earth Balance, or a similar vegan buttery spread to make these dairy free. Otherwise, use butter.)
6 cups Gluten Free Crispy Cocoa Rice Cereal
1/2 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
pinch of kosher salt (1/16 tsp)
Method:
First, prepare your pan. Lightly spray a 9 x 13 glass pan with non-stick coconut oil spray (or something similar). Set aside.
Next, set a big pot over medium heat and melt the buttery spread. Add the marshmallows and heat them gently, stirring almost constantly as they melt and meld with the buttery spread. Once they’re completely melted, stir in the salt and vanilla and quickly add the crispy rice, stirring to coat them completely with the molten marshmallow goodness.
Plunk the sticky mixture into the prepared glass pan and press the rice down, smoothing it as you go. It helps to spray your fingers with non-stick spray so the treats don’t stick to your fingers. Let the treats cool and set for a few minutes, then slice into them as you like.
You can read Part One of A Tale of Gluten Freedom here.
Dear Joey,
Fast forward about 14 years. We had been married for over two years by then, and we were finding our footing in yet another living situation–the third move in our still young marriage. With two very little girls in tow, we crowded in with my parents and older brother in the house I grew up in with hopes of saving money for a home of our own in the coming year. While the situation was a good one–ideal in many ways–and we were settling into a new sort of normal, the stress of it all took a toll on us.
Just days before Christmas that year, you woke me before the sun came up on the morning we were supposed to get on a plane to go spend the holiday with your mom. In a hushed voice, so as not to wake Addie who shared a bedroom with us at the time, you said you were heading to the emergency room because you were convinced the stomach pain you had been having lately was appendicitis. You kissed me goodbye and urged me to go back to sleep in vain. I lay there worried and powerless, feeling like an abandoned child and a lazy wife more interested in sleep than holding your hand in a waiting room. I was neither, of course.
Out for a stroll on Christmas Eve, not long after you had your appendix removed.
When the girls woke up the rest of the household that day, my parents willingly watched the girls while I went hospital. When I reached you there, you laughed the whole thing off, amused at your ability to self-diagnose (ever the astute PA you are). But for me, the stress of it pushed my own body to a breaking point.
There were twinges in my abdomen as we drove back over the hills toward home later that night. You had just had your appendix removed and suddenly my own tummy was smarting and radiating with pain. I brushed it off as what I could only assume were sympathy pains, and I ignored them as best I could. They didn’t go away though, and they even got worse. I finally said something about them to you, a bit embarrassed because I figured you would dismiss them as nothing, too. It was a little coincidental that my lower right abdomen would start screaming at me in the hours after your appendicitis, but I couldn’t shake the very real pain I was experiencing. And once more, I didn’t understand why my body was turning on me again with painful problems that played with my mind. I tried to rationalize my way out of it–again–but of course that didn’t help.
Mia and me just days after my own pains first started.
You listened to my complaints and advised me to keep an eye on it, telling me I would know with great certainty if it was appendicitis or not because the pain would be unbearable. I lost a lot of sleep as it flared and dissipated over the next week or so. It gnawed at me by day and worsened at night when the darkness turns everything grim anyway. I laid awake most nights, obsessing about the pain, wondering why it was there, convinced something was fatally wrong with me, and worried no one believed me.
While I waited for the CT, we eventually made our way to Washington and enjoyed a belated Christmas with them. I brought my new affliction with me, though, and since the day those pains started I carried them with me in mind and body everywhere. I worried every day. I worried every night. I feared the CT would reveal a fatal problem and I feared it wouldn’t reveal anything at all–because that would mean the pain was all in my head, and that would mean I was crazy, wouldn’t it?
Mia and Addie on our belated Christmas trip to Washington that year
The CT didn’t reveal a thing, so my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, a visit that took months to coordinate. While I waited for my appointment day to arrive, I sat with the unsettling idea that my doctor had missed something. As I worried, my grandma came across a magazine article about tummy troubles associated with gluten. She photocopied the page and sent it to me. I read the article, scoffed a bit, and then wondered. I paid attention to my body in a new way after that–what I put into it and how I felt after. I noticed the pain worsened when I ate wheat-heavy foods, but not to the degree that I believed wheat or gluten was the source of the problem. I thought perhaps it simply exacerbated a different problem.
Finally, months later, I sat down with the gastroenterologist and did my best to tell her my story, give her my symptoms, and talk about my concerns. She hardly looked at me, murmured a few brief mmhmms, and asked pointed questions that made me feel like I was on trial. When she asked if I had noticed any particular foods that seemed to make things better or worse, I mentioned what I had noticed about wheat and told her I hadn’t been eating it lately. She slowly turned from her computer, looked at me over the thick rimmed glasses that were perched on the tip of her nose, eyebrows cocked and flatly said, “What are you trying to say?”
Me, doing what I did best in those days: biding my time until I found answers.
She seemed bothered by my words and I was thrown off a bit because I didn’t really know why a doctor would say something like that. (I was only answering her question as best I could, wasn’t I?). I assured her I was not trying to self-diagnose and I was not saying wheat was the source of the problem. But the pain intensified when I ate sandwiches and muffins, but were milder again on days I ate things like soup or salad. They were still very much present on all other days too, though, so I couldn’t make sense of the connection.
After all that, she clicked away on her computer and slowly turned to face me and said simply: “You have IBS.”
She handed me paper after paper of information about FODMAPS, elimination diets, and fiber supplementation. I was somewhere else completely as she spoke–back in High School and those nauseating days where pain and suffering of a different sort plagued me, and I was again humiliated because didn’t I already know this about myself—that I had IBS? But if that was the problem, then why didn’t dairy trigger the problem like it used to? These new pains were very different than bloating, cramping and nausea that accompanied the lactose intolerance of my younger years.
I snapped back to the present when the doctor told me she was reluctant to order a test for Celiac Disease. She told me she was certain that I did not have it, but would order it anyway. She stood up, opened the door, and as she went, she urged me to take more fiber and follow the FODMAPS diet for six weeks.
She closed the door, and I cried. Read what happened next here.
You can read Part One of A Tale of Gluten Freedom here.
Dear Joey,
Fast forward about 14 years. We had been married for over two years by then, and we were finding our footing in yet another living situation–the third move in our still young marriage. With two very little girls in tow, we crowded in with my parents and older brother in the house I grew up in with hopes of saving money for a home of our own in the coming year. While the situation was a good one–ideal in many ways–and we were settling into a new sort of normal, the stress of it all took a toll on us.
Just days before Christmas that year, you woke me before the sun came up on the morning we were supposed to get on a plane to go spend the holiday with your mom. In a hushed voice, so as not to wake Addie who shared a bedroom with us at the time, you said you were heading to the emergency room because you were convinced the stomach pain you had been having lately was appendicitis. You kissed me goodbye and urged me to go back to sleep in vain. I lay there worried and powerless, feeling like an abandoned child and a lazy wife more interested in sleep than holding your hand in a waiting room. I was neither, of course.
Out for a stroll on Christmas Eve, not long after you had your appendix removed.
When the girls woke up the rest of the household that day, my parents willingly watched the girls while I went hospital. When I reached you there, you laughed the whole thing off, amused at your ability to self-diagnose (ever the astute PA you are). But for me, the stress of it pushed my own body to a breaking point.
There were twinges in my abdomen as we drove back over the hills toward home later that night. You had just had your appendix removed and suddenly my own tummy was smarting and radiating with pain. I brushed it off as what I could only assume were sympathy pains, and I ignored them as best I could. They didn’t go away though, and they even got worse. I finally said something about them to you, a bit embarrassed because I figured you would dismiss them as nothing, too. It was a little coincidental that my lower right abdomen would start screaming at me in the hours after your appendicitis, but I couldn’t shake the very real pain I was experiencing. And once more, I didn’t understand why my body was turning on me again with painful problems that played with my mind. I tried to rationalize my way out of it–again–but of course that didn’t help.
Mia and me just days after my own pains first started.
You listened to my complaints and advised me to keep an eye on it, telling me I would know with great certainty if it was appendicitis or not because the pain would be unbearable. I lost a lot of sleep as it flared and dissipated over the next week or so. It gnawed at me by day and worsened at night when the darkness turns everything grim anyway. I laid awake most nights, obsessing about the pain, wondering why it was there, convinced something was fatally wrong with me, and worried no one believed me.
While I waited for the CT, we eventually made our way to Washington and enjoyed a belated Christmas with them. I brought my new affliction with me, though, and since the day those pains started I carried them with me in mind and body everywhere. I worried every day. I worried every night. I feared the CT would reveal a fatal problem and I feared it wouldn’t reveal anything at all–because that would mean the pain was all in my head, and that would mean I was crazy, wouldn’t it?
Mia and Addie on our belated Christmas trip to Washington that year
The CT didn’t reveal a thing, so my doctor referred me to a gastroenterologist, a visit that took months to coordinate. While I waited for my appointment day to arrive, I sat with the unsettling idea that my doctor had missed something. As I worried, my grandma came across a magazine article about tummy troubles associated with gluten. She photocopied the page and sent it to me. I read the article, scoffed a bit, and then wondered. I paid attention to my body in a new way after that–what I put into it and how I felt after. I noticed the pain worsened when I ate wheat-heavy foods, but not to the degree that I believed wheat or gluten was the source of the problem. I thought perhaps it simply exacerbated a different problem.
Finally, months later, I sat down with the gastroenterologist and did my best to tell her my story, give her my symptoms, and talk about my concerns. She hardly looked at me, murmured a few brief mmhmms, and asked pointed questions that made me feel like I was on trial. When she asked if I had noticed any particular foods that seemed to make things better or worse, I mentioned what I had noticed about wheat and told her I hadn’t really been eating it lately. She slowly turned from her computer, looked at me over the thick rimmed glasses that were perched on the tip of her nose, eyebrows cocked and flatly said, “What are you trying to say?”
Me, doing what I did best in those days: biding my time until I found answers.
She seemed bothered by my words and I was thrown off a bit because I didn’t really know why a doctor would say something like that. (I was only answering her question as best I could, wasn’t I?). I assured her I was not trying to self-diagnose and I was not saying wheat was the source of the problem. I was saying I noticed when I ate wheat-heavy foods, the pains got worse. They were still very much present on all other days too, though, so I couldn’t make sense of the connection.
After all that, she clicked away on her computer and slowly turned to face me and said simply: “You have IBS.”
She handed me paper after paper of information about FODMAPS, elimination diets, and fiber supplementation. I was somewhere else completely as she spoke–back in High School and those nauseating days where pain and suffering of a different sort plagued me, and I was again humiliated because didn’t I already know this about myself—that I had IBS? But if that was the problem, then why didn’t dairy trigger the problem like it used to? These new pains were very different than bloating, cramping and nausea that betrayed the lactose intolerance of my younger years. I was snapped back to the present when the doctor told me she was reluctant to order a test for Celiac Disease. She told me she was certain that I did not have it, but would order it anyway. She stood up, opened the door, and as she went, she urged me to follow the FODMAPS diet for six weeks and see how I did with wheat after that.
Emery is my little traveling buddy these days. Lucky for me, this kid likes to be on the go–prefers it, even. Good thing too because he spends most of his time running up and down the Valley with me. I apologize to him every time I snap him into his car seat, promising we’ll go home to play just as soon as we can. He smile his assent, content to be along for the ride, but I beat myself up about it because the boy ought to be outside digging in the dirt and kicking a ball instead of strapped into another shopping cart or stealing a nap in the car. It’s hard.
The early days of parenthood were easy, in hindsight, because once we figured out the pattern of our day, each one after the next fell easily into place without much disruption. At the time this was a bit boring, admittedly, and we grew weary of the repetition that rendered us home-bound. The apartment was small, our circle of friends smaller, and the outside commitments so few that we looked longingly to the days when more children would fill a larger home, and our bigger life would demand more interaction outside the walls of our little apartment.
Now, of course, I look back at those days with the sort of wistfulness that can only come from experience. More children, a bigger home, and a larger life are exhausting in a different sort of way, and sometimes I wish I could trade the busy-ness of this season with the boring-ness of the past seasons just so I could catch my breath. These days are accomplishing what we hoped they would, meaning they forced us out of that new-parent isolation and plunged us deep into the swirling chaos of real family life. And it’s good, for the most part. But the babymoon ended before we welcomed our third and final child into our home. When he joined us, he hit the ground running right along with us.
Whereas his sisters’ baby days were spent largely at home unless a beautiful day beckoned us outside for a walk or an empty cupboard made a shopping trip necessary, Emery lives the majority of his days restrained by his sisters’ schedules. He spends more time watching the world from a car seat, stroller, or grocery cart than his sisters did combined, I bet. I am wracked by guilt over this, of course, but it’s the only sort of life he knows and for the most part he doesn’t seem to mind.
Instead he squeals with delight when I say it’s time to go, running to the door and stamping his feet like an impatient soldier ready to march into battle while he waits for me to join him. Old enough to walk alongside me now, he likes to take my hand to lead me down the hallways and aisles and sidewalks he’s come to know so well, pointing at things and cooing his garbled words for truck and ball as we go. My favorite is when I scoop him up to carry him across a busy street or crowded parking lot: he grasps my thumb, just like he’s always done, turns his head toward our destination and holds on as we go.
The trade off with a life lived on the go is Emery is used to living life this way, and what’s more, it suits him. For as patient as he is (and boy, is he patient), he is full of that distinctly rambunctious boy energy that only lets him stay put for so long. Like a puppy, he must be let outside to run and explore and tire himself out. But he always comes back running when I call him, knocking me down as he lavishes my face with wet, sticky kisses.
There are a few things that seem to make this always-on-the-go life more bearable for us both, things I am so thankful for that I must share them.
First, the red Radio Flyer Stroll ‘N Trike that Emery begs to ride in daily, which works for me because it dupes him into thinking he’s on an adventure, when really he is just along for the ride. I use it instead of a stroller these days because he’s so much happier in it. After school pick-up, ballet lessons, the post office, the doctor’s office– you name it. If I am going there (and there isn’t a shopping cart), he is riding in it. It folds up like a dream and fits easily in the back of the Durango. I can’t imagine doing life with this kid in tow without it these days.
Also, my arsenal of gluten free, dairy free and peanut free snacks that happen to be all three at the same time. It gets pretty complicated keeping track of who can eat what around here, so it makes me happy to find snacks that are safe for everyone in our house to eat. It takes the guesswork out of snacks-on-the-go. Lately my favorites are Go Go Squeeze Fruit & Veggiez blends, Nature’s Bakery Fig Bars, and Annie’s Homegrown granola bars. And by the way, while I’m on the subject of granola bars, can I just say how much I love the Grocery Outlet? I know it might make me sound cheap, but really: they often have snacks like these there for a fraction of the cost. Last month, boxes of Annie’s gluten free granola bars were 99 cents each. 99 cents! (And no, they weren’t expired or damaged or otherwise unfit for consumption. I stocked up.)
And finally, our collection of Skip Hop Zoo Little Kid Backpacks. I traded in Emery’s diaper bag for the Darby Dog one on his first birthday because I was just plain tired of toting that beast of a bag around with me. Instead, I turned this backpack into his go bag loaded with all the essentials: diapers, wipes, a change of clothes, emergency medicine (Epi Pen and Benadryl), and a snack. All I do is add a water bottle and we are out the door. Plus, he recognizes the bag as his own and can already help load it and tote it back and forth. This is the third of its kind in our house: all the Goobies have their own, and I love how they take ownership of them (and are pretty good about being responsible for them). Plus, they are so adorable I just can’t even handle it.
Today I’m sharing the love and giving one away. Not to you of course–goodness knows we don’t need another one floating around our house. But I bet there is someone else out there with their own traveling buddy who gets weary of being at the mercy of this new on-the-go schedule (and would be happy to nix their diaper bag too). And while I can’t make their life any slower or easier, I can do this at least. It’s the little things, right?
Love,
Scratch
The Giveaway:
Love the backpack? Want one for your own little traveling buddy? I thought maybe so. Click the link below (“Skip Hop Zoo Little Kid Backpack Giveaway”) and follow the directions on the Rafflecopter website to enter the contest. (1 entry for leaving a comment letting me know which one you would choose if you’re the lucky winner and two bonus entries for liking Love, Scratch on Facebook.) The winner will be chosen at random on Friday 9/16 at 9:00 am (PST) and I will announce the winner on Love, Scratch later that day.
NOTE: All opinions expressed herein are 100% my own; this is not a sponsored post or giveaway. These are products I really, really love and I have not received compensation from any outside entity.
I get asked pretty often if going gluten free was hard, and if being gluten free is still hard. I have said it before and I will say it again: yes and no, and sometimes even both at the same time.
Yes, I have a hard time being gluten free sometimes because I’m normal and I like donuts, and watching the four of you enjoy your Sunday morning sugar rush isn’t exactly fun. But knowing those donuts would wrack my body with a mysterious, hard-to-describe pain (that convinced me I was dying for years) is enough to keep them at bay. So no, choosing to stay gluten free is not hard.
But in the beginning, it was really difficult to swallow the idea that gluten was the culprit behind my ailing body–even harder to actually get rid of the stuff. Gluten is sneaky and inconspicuous, and the kitchen is a formidable foe when tasked with eradicating the stuff from the pantry. I was ignorant about how to go about tackling what seemed impossible, and the learning curve intimidated me. Cooking with gluten-laden ingredients was all I knew, even though I didn’t really know what gluten itself was until my body decided to finally start rejecting it.
This all started back in high school, you know, when I got sick the summer before Senior year with something I didn’t understand or appreciate. It came out of seemingly nowhere: I was spending the week at my best friend’s house while our parents were off on a cruise together. Molly and I had been friends for as long as we could remember, the prospect of spending a week home alone together right before Senior year began seemed awesome. And it was–until suddenly it wasn’t. By week’s end, my insides screamed, burning with pain and urgency that surprised and horrified me. Lilting with nausea, I staggered to the bathroom and stayed there for what felt like hours, shivering and feeling very much alone.
Another friend was with us that day, Cari, and although I don’t know exactly what those two girls were feeling in those strange moments, I imagine they panicked and probably got a little grossed out. Cari knocked on the bathroom door and told me her mom was on the line and wanted to talk. I eased the door open and took the phone, relieved to hear the voice of an adult. With calm firmness, she insisted I stay at her house so she could keep an eye on me until my parents came home. I agreed, humiliated but grateful. I imagine Molly was relieved to have me go too–taking care of a sick friend without an adult around is a tall order, even for best friends.
I’m sure everyone braced themselves for being knocked upside down too, thinking I must be suffering from a virulent bug. The curious thing is this: no one else got sick. I improved after a couple days, but my insides were never quite the same after that. My stomach was temperamental and almost anything set it off, it seemed. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom, vomiting and plagued with the other not-so-pleasant digestive issue that the doctor eventually diagnosed as Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). At the time, dairy products seemed to be the biggest trigger, but it certainly wasn’t the only one. Pretty soon I sort of stopped eating, meaning I ate very little from a small list of “safe” foods that didn’t seem set off my symptoms. I dropped quite a bit of weight in the coming months.
As I cut foods out of my diet, things looked up a bit. I certainly didn’t get struck down sick as often, but when I did get sick, it was violently so–and still out of seemingly nowhere. I would feel my new normal of “fine-ness” until another attack came on, and when it did, I would become flushed and feeble as searing pain radiated in my abdomen and blood prickled itself through my veins, both cold and hot at the same time. Finding a bathroom wasn’t a dalliance; it was an urgent need.
Nerves made everything worse. I was anxious pretty much all the time. I feared an attack was imminent, and because of this, I labored over getting in the car and going farther than a five minute drive. Being away from home, not having a bathroom close by, being stuck at the mercy of teenage drivers — it was all a lot to handle. And I was afraid no one believed me. I knew how extreme and uncommon my issue was, and I began to fear others were rolling their eyes in disbelief when I missed yet another day of school or fun night out. To make matters worse, completely nutty scenarios of catastrophe plagued me, and I believed deep down I was going to die, and soon. I never told anyone that before.
I lived as though I was lactose intolerant because clearly at the time I was lactose intolerant. Dairy products were my nemesis, and I carried that with me through the first couple years of college. As time wore on, I was able to tolerate small amounts of dairy, and then a little more, and on it went until dairy didn’t bother me at all. But something still wasn’t quite right. I still suffered from IBS and various other maladies that seemed unrelated to my food intake, and it took several years–over 10 of them–to figure out the real source of all the problems. Read Part 2 here.
After the doctor suggested I might be lactose intolerant, I relied on lactose free milk and soy-based dairy-like products because that’s what was available and that’s what my mom was able to find. (Tofutti and Go Veggie were our go-to brands, but much has changed since then and a variety of soy free, pretty-good-tasting substitutes are around now. But I digress.) Using coconut milk as a substitute for cream didn’t occur to my 17 year old self, and in truth didn’t occur to me until much later when I cut out all dairy completely. This recipe was borne out of a deep need for the creamy comfort of a simple dish of homemade pudding, a dessert staple in the Maier home. Variations to this pudding abound, clearly, but what sets this version apart is simply this: it’s thick. I credit the richness of the full fat coconut milk along with the sheer amount of cocoa powder (1/4 cup!). This became a life-saver in our family because we like our desserts on an almost-daily basis, and this one is healthy one all of us can eat freely!
I get asked pretty often if going gluten free was hard, and if being gluten free is still hard. I have said it before and I will say it again: yes and no, and sometimes even both at the same time.
Yes, I have a hard time being gluten free sometimes because I’m normal and I like donuts, and watching the four of you enjoy your Sunday morning sugar rush isn’t exactly fun. But knowing those donuts would wrack my body with a mysterious, hard-to-describe pain (that convinced me I was dying for years) is enough to keep them at bay. So no, choosing to stay gluten free is not hard.
But in the beginning, yes, it was hard to swallow the idea that gluten was the culprit behind my ailing body–even harder to actually get rid of the stuff because gluten is sneaky and inconspicuous, and the kitchen is a formidable foe when tasked with eradicating the stuff from the pantry. I was ignorant about how to go about tackling what seemed impossible, and the learning curve intimidated me. Cooking with gluten-laden ingredients was all I knew, even though I didn’t really know what gluten itself was until my body decided to finally start rejecting it.
This all started back in high school, you know, when I got sick the summer before Senior year with something I didn’t understand or appreciate. It came out of seemingly nowhere: I was spending the week Molly’s house while our parents were off on a cruise together. Best friends for as long as we could remember, the prospect of spending a week home alone together right before Senior year began seemed awesome. And it was–until suddenly it wasn’t. By week’s end, my insides screamed, burning with pain and urgency that surprised and horrified me. Lilting with nausea, I staggered to the bathroom and stayed there for what felt like hours, shivering and feeling very much alone.
Another friend was with us that day, and although I don’t know exactly what those two girls were feeling in those strange moments, I imagine they panicked and probably got a little grossed out. I do remember our friend handing the phone to me, saying her mom was on the line and wanted to talk. With calm firmness, she insisted I stay at her house so she could keep an eye on me until my parents came home. I agreed, humiliated but grateful. I imagine Molly was relieved to have me go too–taking care of a sick friend without an adult around is a tall order, even for best friends.
I’m sure everyone braced themselves for being knocked upside down too, thinking I must be suffering from a virulent bug. The curious thing is this: no one else got sick. I improved after a couple days, but my insides were never quite the same after that. My stomach was temperamental and almost anything set it off, it seemed. I spent a lot of time in the bathroom, vomiting and plagued with the other not-so-pleasant digestive issue that the doctor eventually diagnosed as Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). At the time, dairy products seemed to be the biggest trigger, but it certainly wasn’t the only one. Pretty soon I sort of stopped eating, meaning I ate very little from a small list of “safe” foods that didn’t seem set off my symptoms. I dropped quite a bit of weight in the coming months.
As I cut stuff out of my diet, things looked up a bit. I certainly didn’t get struck down sick as often, but when I did get sick, it was violently so–and still out of seemingly nowhere. I would feel my new normal of “fine-ness” until another attack came on, and when it did, I would become flushed and feeble as searing pain radiated in my abdomen and blood prickled itself through my veins, both cold and hot at the same time. Finding a bathroom wasn’t a dalliance; it was an urgent need.
Nerves made everything worse. I was anxious pretty much all the time. I feared an attack was imminent, and because of this, I labored over getting in the car and going farther than a five minute drive. Being away from home, not having a bathroom close by, being stuck at the mercy of teenage drivers — it was all a lot to handle. And I was afraid no one believed me. I knew how extreme and uncommon my issue was, and I began to fear others were rolling their eyes in disbelief when I missed yet another day of school or fun night out. To make matters worse, completely nutty scenarios of catastrophe plagued me, and I believed deep down I was going to die, and soon. I never told anyone that before.
I lived as though I was lactose intolerant because clearly at the time I was lactose intolerant. Dairy products were my nemesis, and I carried that with me through the first couple years of college. As time wore on, I was able to tolerate small amounts of dairy, and then a little more, and on it went until dairy didn’t bother me at all. But something still wasn’t quite right. I still suffered from IBS and various other maladies that seemed unrelated to my food intake, and it took several years–over 10 of them–to figure out the real source of all the problems.
Love,
Scratch
Cocoa-Banana Chia Pudding
When I first cut dairy out of my life, I relied heavily on Lactaid milk and soy-based dairy-like products because that’s what was available and that’s what my mom was able to find. (Tofutti and Go Veggie were our go-to brands, but much has changed since then and a variety of soy free, pretty-good-tasting substitutes are around now. But I digress.) Using coconut milk as a substitute didn’t occur to my 17 year old self, and in truth didn’t occur to me until much later when I cut dairy out again. This recipe was borne out of a deep need for the creamy comfort of a simple dish of homemade pudding, a dessert staple in the Maier home. Variations to this pudding abound, clearly, but what sets this version apart is simply this: it’s thick. I credit the richness of the full fat coconut milk along with the sheer amount of cocoa powder (1/4 cup!). This became a life-saver in our family because we like our desserts on an almost-daily basis. My favorite thing about it now? Emery is silly for it.
Ingredients:
10 ounces very ripe peeled bananas (about 2 large bananas)
1-15 ounce can full fat coconut milk
1/2 cup chia seeds
1/4 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
2 teaspoons stevia blend sweetener (such as Pyure, or the equivalent of 4 teaspoons of cane sugar)
1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract
1/8 teaspoon kosher salt
Method:
Using an immersion blender (or a regular blender or food processor if you don’t have one), whirl the bananas until completely smooth. Next, add the coconut milk, cocoa powder, sweetener, vanilla and salt. Whisk until combined. Give it a taste to adjust for sweetness–if you need to add more, feel free. Finally, pour in the chia seeds and stir to combine. At this point, you can divide the pudding into individual dishes if you want to, but I tend to make it easy and just put a cover over the mixing bowl. Whatever you choose, cover the bowl (or dishes) and chill for at least two hours for the chia seeds to work their thickening magic, and then enjoy.
3 “You’re blessed when you’re at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule. You’re blessed when you feel you’ve lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you. You’re blessed when you’re content with just who you are–no more, no less. That’s the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can’t be bought. You’re blessed when you’ve worked up a good appetite for God. He’s food and drink in the best meal you’ll ever eat. You’re blessed when you care. At the moment of being ‘care-full,’ you find yourselves cared for. You’re blessed when you get your inside world–your mind and heart–put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
–Matthew 5:3-8 MSG
Dear Joey,
I remember that night well: I was all alone in that quirky old house on 12th street. My roommates were off doing other things with other people, leaving a rare quiet in the middle of that little house that typically served as the after-work gathering spot. When I got home that evening, I sank into that velvety red couch and inhaled deeply as I took in the quiet. There were five of us living there at the time, and moments like this didn’t happen much. The house was hushed, as if it were holding its breath waiting to see what I would do to fill the void. It got its answer before long: I picked up my phone and sent you a text almost without thinking, as if dinner with you was the obvious choice for how to spend my time.
This did not surprise me until the moment after I hit the send button. No one cajoled me into meeting up with you, dared me to take a risk, or hounded me to just give you a chance. Those days were long gone by then; everyone (including you) had let the idea of you and me together drift away about a year before this particular night. And yet there I was, asking if you wanted to meet up and grab dinner with me. A moment or two later, another surprise: you said yes.
We ended up at My Thai, an unassuming local spot tucked in the corner of an otherwise forgettable strip mall in the northern part of Fremont. I knew two things about this restaurant before we went there that night: one, their food was supposed to be fantastic; and two, they took pictures of customers who survived eating the spiciest of their fare and posted it on the Wall of Flame, a challenge you feverishly embraced.
We ordered a slew of curries, mine fairly mild and yours the hottest of the hot, and lavished it over mounds and mounds of rice. The molten exotic goodness was a revelation to me, and I was surprised at how much I enjoyed it. I hadn’t liked Thai food before that night, and really, I can’t think why I suggested the place at all. But there we were, being adventurous together, trying new things and laughing our way through the evening. By the time we finished, you had earned your place on the Wall of Flame and in my heart.
I didn’t tell you that, of course–not yet, at least. I had to sit with those feelings for awhile, marinating in them until my mind caught up with my heart, which had already turned tender toward you. I didn’t understand what was happening at the time, and its taken until this moment to see the pattern that had to happen in order for the sinewy strings of my heart to be softened, and I found the answer in the Sermon on the Mount, where Jesus talks with his disciples about what it means to be blessed.
In those verses, I see a process of transformation: for everything lost, something else is found. Change occurs as blow builds upon blow to ultimately bestow blessing upon blessing. I went through that process of transformation, beginning at the outset of adulthood with hurt and isolation, having lost so many of the things and people in which I had come to find my identity. My losses put me on a path toward contentment with who I am, as I am. In the process, I grew desperate for God’s love, and I learned He was all that could really satisfy. Once my heart was fully His, that’s when it began to soften and my inside world settled into a new rhythm of peace. My mind eventually caught up with my heart and once they began working in tandem, that’s when I started to see what God was doing in me and in you. You went through the same process, albeit at a different pace than I did, but eventually, finally, we both made it to the place where we could really see what God was doing outside of ourselves and inside of each other.
We live far across the hills from that little strip mall now, in a time and place very different from those first few moments we flirted with the idea of us. My Thai has long since closed, sadly, but your picture hung alongside your comrades on the Wall of Flame until the day the restaurant closed its doors. I’ll remember that modest little place fondly forever though, because it opened my world up to taking chances, enjoying unfamiliar things, savoring things I thought I didn’t like in the first place. It is where you became mine, after all (even though it still took some time for me to admit that to you).
P.S. – My favorite part of that story is what you didn’t tell me until well after we were married: that you were sitting in a dark theater, already in the middle of that Steve Carell remake of Get Smart when you got my message. Without hesitation, you got up and left mid-movie to come have dinner with me instead. I love that.
This recipe is inspired by my memories of the night Joey and I first enjoyed Thai food together. Clearly, we can’t really flit off to dinner at our favorite local spots on a whim these days, but this recipe satisfies our cravings for spicy, adventurous flavors–and it just happens to be one of the easiest recipes in my rotation (bonus that it’s gluten free and dairy free, too!). If you like the coconut-laden flavors of Thai curries, this is an easy way to make it at home without all the fuss of an exhaustive list of exotic-sounding ingredients. The ingredients are flexible: use chicken if you don’t really like pork. Ground turkey would be delicious as well. Hold the cilantro or pile it on. Amp up the spice or not. Serve with more lime wedges or forget it. It doesn’t really matter–do it how you like it best. Joey and I like to serve it over riced cauliflower, but of course regular old rice will do. I have made this in the crock pot as well, and it does work, but I think the flavors are better when made on the stove. To make it in the crock pot, stir together the coconut milk, curry paste, lime juice, basil and red pepper; then toss uncooked sliced meat into the crock pot and pour the coconut slurry on top. Cook on low for 4-6 hours (adding snow peas during the final hour or so), or high for 3-4 hours (adding the snow peas the final 30 minutes).
Ingredients:
2 pounds pork (such as a sirloin roast), cut into 1″ strips
1 – 9 oz. bag snow peas, ends snipped and cut into 1″ pieces
2-15 oz cans coconut milk (I prefer to use full fat, but reduced fat works fine as well. The end result won’t be quite as rich and creamy, but the flavor will still be fantastic).
1-4 oz jar green curry paste (Thai Kitchen is our favorite!)
1/3 cup lime juice
3 Tablespoons unrefined coconut oil
1 1/2 Tablespoons fresh basil, chopped (or substitute Thai basil if you have it, which I usually don’t. Regular basil from my garden works just fine. Also, 1/2 teaspoon dry basil works in a pinch.)
1/2 teaspoon minced garlic
1/2 teaspoon dried red chili flakes
kosher salt
Method:
First, prep the pork by trimming off any excessive fat and slicing it into strips, about 1/2 ” x 2″ or so. Season with kosher salt. Next, set a large pan over high heat and plunk a tablespoon of coconut oil into the bottom. Once it’s melted and the pan is hot, brown the strips of pork, separating them into two batches so they brown (and don’t steam). Once the first batch has browned, remove it from the pan and start the next batch, adding an additional tablespoon to the pan. Once that is browned, remove it from the pan as well. Turn the heat down to medium. Add one final tablespoon of coconut oil to the pan along with the minced garlic, curry paste, chili flakes and basil; stir until fragrant. Return the browned pork back to the pan.
Add the coconut milk and lime juice and give it a good stir. Bring to a simmer, cover, and let cook for 20 minutes, then add the trimmed snow peas and cover again. Continue to simmer for another 20 minutes, or until the snow peas have softened to your liking. Add a sprinkle more kosher salt if the flavor seems a little flat (in other words, adjust seasoning to your taste.) Serve with cauliflower rice or regular rice and top with a squeeze of lime, sprinkle of more red chili flakes, and a garnish of cilantro (if you like).
This morning started out as one of those days. You know the kind. I spent my first few waking moments with the strap of my tank top askew–one strap on, one strap off–having been accosted by children who needed snuggles right now and didn’t care that I was in the middle of changing out of my pajamas. My morning glory was in full force as I juggled kids on my lap, wiping tears and stroking backs and assuring them they would all get their turn eventually.
To the table we stumbled and I managed about three sips of coffee as the kids stared at their plates and all but refused to eat. Addie complained her toast was too dry, so we added strawberry jam. Mia said she changed her mind and forgot to tell us she doesn’t really like toast (and left it untouched). Full tummies or not, we somehow managed to get out the door on time, but as we did so, Mia started crying saying she was finally hungry. I reminded her about her toast and she protested again against it. I wrapped it in a paper towel and set it on her lap in the car anyway, telling her she could eat it if she was hungry enough. She just glared at me and sipped her orange juice.
As we drove, I finally started in on the rest of my now-lukewarm coffee, which leaked water onto my lap as I went. (What?!) Without a towel to wipe it up, I did the next best thing I could think of: wrapped a diaper around the cup and went ahead and drank the rest of that darn coffee anyway. I held it up to show the kids what a weirdo I am, thanked Emery for letting me use one of his diapers, and everyone giggled their little hearts out. It lightened the mood for us all, and we clicked on some of our favorite going-to-school music and I sang my heart out between sips. Down the road just a bit Addie saw a lady jogging backward while walking a dog on a leash and had another good giggle as we declared today must be Wacky Wednesday, just like that goofy book the Goobies love so much. Not long after that, I saw a bird hitching a ride on top of a car that was already in motion. And by the time she climbed back out of the car, Mia had eaten her toast all up. (A wacky Wednesday indeed.)
Admittedly, we did not start the day off on a great foot, but as we lived through the crazy today I realized how much choosing joy in the middle of it helps us all hit the reset button. I also breathed a prayer of thanksgiving for the people who are smarter, wiser and more creative than I am that help me actually do that because let’s be honest: it’s not easy. But nevertheless, lately a few things have helped.
This first one is hit or miss: The One Year Devotions for Preschoolers, meaning sometimes we do it and sometimes we don’t. Sometimes we forget and other times the kids remind us. When we all gather around the table and listen to you read the short excerpt for the day really does help start our day off right; it’s like breakfast for our souls. When we skip it, we have a hard time finding our footing and we stumble through. But when we do make the effort, we are all energized and focused on the reason we live each day anyway. The short stories and Bible verses are easy to remember and apply throughout the day. Something as easy as “God made all things” could have been applied today as we drove to school by saying, “God even made the wacky stuff. Isn’t He creative? He must have a sense of humor.”
Also, we love to listen to JJ Heller anyway, but “Big World, Baby” and “I Know You Will” (from her I Dream of You album) both help focus my prayers for them as I send them out the car door. After we have said our goodbyes, I usually finish one or both of these songs and end up in tears over how much potential I see in these little faces and how I pray I don’t squelch a drop of it with my own bad mood.
Perhaps the most important one for this season, I think, is a song from Rend Collective: Joy. It is the song I turn to when Addie whispers “I’m a little nervous, Mommy” as approach the morning drop off line to help her say no to the part of her that wants to sulk in the shadows and instead be confident in who she is because of Who she belongs to. It is the song I play when I feel bogged down by grumpiness to remind me I have the power to break out of that mood. It is the song that reminds me that joy is a choice and it does not depend on whether I feel happy or at ease. The song reminds me to see the beauty and goodness that dances around me every day, and to delight in it even when my circumstances are tough.
What I love lately is simply this: choosing joy. I got up on the wrong side of the bed today and I brought my bad attitude with me into the first moments of my day. Somehow I set aside my grumpiness and chose joy instead. Today started off wacky indeed, but there was so much beauty and wonder in it I would have missed had I not chosen to be joyful in the midst of it all.
We finally made it to the Farmer’s Market this summer. It only took us until the first Saturday after school started to make it there. Not everyone was as excited about it as me: Addie crossed her arms and stomped her way to the car, going on about how mean we were for dragging her out of the house and huffing “You said I could color all day” as finally climbed into her seat.
Once we got there, I handed her my phone and asked her if she wanted to take some pictures. It was a desperate move on my part to coax a happy attitude out of her. The last thing I wanted was a grumpy, whiny kid ruining a trip to a place so alive with every color imaginable. Color and beauty speak to this kid and she has a knack for capturing it. Plus, she feels pretty grown up when I let her tinker around with the camera. I knew she’d take the bait.
As we strolled up the deserted aisle, 8:00 in the morning felt early. The tables were still piled high with fruits and vegetables that seemed to glisten in the morning light. Nothing was picked over yet and the sellers greeted us with the sort of smiles I read about in those winsome books about the farm to table movement. I felt like we were part of something big, beautiful and important in those few quiet moments.
I led the girls from stall to stall, pointing out the colors and textures and quizzing them on the names of the things they saw. They swooned over the brilliant red berries, begging to taste as much as they were allowed. They touched and smelled and asked questions as we went. Then, I let each girl pick something special: Addie picked a ruddy heirloom tomato that looked very much like clown lips to her young eyes. Mia picked a pale green bitter melon, a new vegetable for us and one she wasn’t actually keen on tasting after all. But the farmer was so kind to tell us all about it, and his enthusiasm for it must have done its job because she was pretty excited to tell you all about it.
I was not as excited to cook it, to be honest. As I sliced it up, I wondered how I would ever mellow the sharp bite that in my mind screams don’t eat me! But the little mound of scalloped half moons piling up on my cutting board was so pretty I didn’t care about that for a moment: certainly they would just make dinner more beautiful.
They did, and they didn’t. Certainly the colors and textures of that stir fry were far more brilliant than much I’ve made lately, but the sly bitterness of the cute little veggie was not our favorite. Thankfully it didn’t permeate the rest of dinner, because what I came up with was super delicious in its own right.
So hooray for us for getting up and out on an otherwise lazy Saturday morning, for stretching our legs and our culinary muscles and trying something new and different. And hallelujah for a pantry full of ingredients to turn something so-so into something delicious.
Love,
Scratch
Coconut Lime Beef with Cilantro and Red Cabbage
After all that, bitter melon didn’t make it to the ingredient list here, but if you enjoy a challenge (or happen to like bitter melon), it really does work in this recipe. We handled about a half-dozen bites with it until we started plucking the pieces out of our bowls). Like I said before, the bitterness didn’t overpower the flavor of the dish, and what was left was sweet and tangy, mellow and spicy all at the same time. This dish uses Tamari, which is gluten free soy sauce (regular soy sauce uses wheat, a lesson I learned the hard way). Addie likes the beef ok, but the veggies aren’t her favorite yet. Emery liked it all until he got a bite of the bitter melon. And Mia wouldn’t go near this for the life of her.
Ingredients:
For the sauce:
1/4 low sodium Tamari
1/4 white vinegar
5 Tablespoons lime juice (plus more for garnish)
2 T Stevia/erythrytol sweetener blend (like this one) or about 4 T cane sugar
a pinch of kosher salt
For the Stir Fry:
1 pound ground beef
1 medium carrot, jullienned
1/2 medium head red cabbage, sliced (about 5 cups or so)
5 green onions, ends removed and cut into 1″ sections
1/2 medium onion, diced
3 garlic cloves, minced
2/3 cup unsweetened shredded coconut
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, minced (plus more for garnish)
2 Tablespoons unrefined Coconut Oil
2 teaspoons ground ginger
1 1/2 teaspoons kosher salt
1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes
almond slices, for garnish
Method:
First, prep the veggies and have them cut and ready to go. Next, mix together the sauce; taste it and adjust the sweetness as you go.
Now for the meat: set a large skillet over medium heat. Melt the coconut oil, then add the onions to the pan and cook until they are almost translucent. Next, add the garlic and cook for a few minutes until the it releases its fragrance. Turn the heat up to medium high and add the beef into the pan, squishing it as you go to make nice large pieces of it. Season the beef with the ginger, salt and red pepper flakes.
On to the veggies: crank up the heat to high and add the carrots first, then the cabbage. Cook those two together for a few minutes (3-5) and let them soften a bit. Add the green onions next, then the coconut. Pour in that sauce and let it deglaze the pan. Once the veggies are soft to your liking, add in the cilantro and give it a good stir.
To serve, mound the sweet and spicy goodness into a bowl and top it with more red pepper flakes, a squeeze of lime juice, a sprinkle of cilantro, and almond slices if nuts are your thing.
After all that, bitter melon didn’t make it to the ingredient list here, but if you enjoy a challenge (or happen to like bitter melon), it really does work in this recipe. We handled about a half-dozen bites with it until we started plucking the pieces out of our bowls). Like I said before, the bitterness didn’t overpower the flavor of the dish, and what was left was sweet and tangy, mellow and spicy all at the same time. This dish uses Tamari, which is gluten free soy sauce (regular soy sauce uses wheat, a lesson I learned the hard way). Addie likes the beef ok, but the veggies aren’t her favorite yet. Emery liked it all until he got a bite of the bitter melon. And Mia wouldn’t go near this for the life of her.
Love, Scratch 