This weekend, I was faced with a reflection of myself 15 years ago.

I was fervent. I was committed. I was totally drinking my own kool-aide. I had zero grace, understanding or compassion for people who did not hold the exact belief set I did.

I was a complete asshole.

I am so sorry.

It doesn’t matter that it came from a good place in me. I didn’t believe you when you said you felt great about your (very liberal) relationship with God. I didn’t believe that you were okay in your complete unbelief, or anything inbetween. I could not fathom how you could claim Mohammed or Buddha as your deity. I lost sleep over your belief system, or lack thereof.

My heart genuinely broke for you and in that brokenness, I BROKE YOU. Not irreparably, and it wasn’t a new break. But I broke you more. With my zealous beliefs and narrow, judgmental rhetoric, I tore the scab off your healing wound and (lovingly) kicked you in the teeth.

I am so sorry.

Your spiritual journey is yours. You invited me to walk beside you as you carved your path, and instead I handed you the map for my journey and demanded that you make it yours.

I am so sorry.

You and your journey are exactly right and can be trusted, even if I don’t understand it.

If there was ever a moment you believed that I loved you but I came at you with a misguided sense of righteous anger instead of connecting to the deep love I hold in my heart for you, I am so sorry.

You showed me grace, and in a few instances, rightfully showed me the door. Being the hands and feet of God never meant being the voice.

I didn’t understand. I didn’t get it. I get it now. It was never my job to change you. There as never anything wrong with you to begin with. You just echoed the fears and doubts in my own heart.

To all of my friends, regardless of belief, thank you for being here. Shutting you up/down/out only serves to show you how broken and scared I am, too. Thank you for staying even when I’m intolerable and self-righteous and just flat-out wrong.  I want to change that because you deserve love without conditions.

I am so sorry. I’m here now. I love you.

Love,
Carrie

The post Your Journey Is Perfect and I’m Sorry appeared first on Our Stable Table.

But here’s the thing with self-care.  It doesn’t always look like a massage or pedicure or magical trek through the woods alone with only your (greatly neglected) journal and a Lara Bar to keep you company. And it almost never looks like a relaxing, kid-free trip somewhere else with my husband because it’s expensive and takes many elements of planning and, uh…it’s expensive.  It could happen, but the reality of securing childcare, paying said childcare, going on the trip, taking time off of work, paying for lodging and food and travel?  It’s pricey and time consuming.

The bottom line is this: Self-care can sometimes feel like a privilege instead of a necessity for mental and emotional health.

It doesn’t matter if you are in a committed relationship, a single person, a parent, a single parent, a grandparent, a circus performer, totally bankrupt, rolling in Kanye amounts of cash, worked to the bone, a teenager or college student, whatever.  YOU NEED TO TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF.  Instead of carving out an hour, a day, a weekend, or any other difficult amount of time, focus on small things.  It doesn’t have to be time-consuming or spendy.  Taking care of yourself can be simple, free, and take 30 seconds or less.

1. Pee first. Whatever you have to do, it can wait 30 seconds while you pee.  Screaming kid?  I get it.  Pee first.  You have to start dinner right this minute? Pee first.  You need to take a call? Send it to voicemail and call right back after you pee first.  Because peeing is important to your well-being.
2. Slip off your shoes and feel the grass.  When was the last time you slipped off your shoes during your lunch break and stood in the grass?  Never?  Well, start now.   Let your kids play at the park or in your yard and sip your coffee with your shoes off for a minute. Enjoy the way the grass feels between your toes and the soft earth beneath you.
3. Breathe on purpose.  Just take a deep breath, okay?  Not because you “need” it, but because it feels freaking wonderful to expand those lungs and breathe in deep, then exhale fully. (10 points if you take a deep breath while you pee barefoot. -10 points if you do that in a public restroom.)
4. Massage your hands. Before bed, when you need a minute to refocus, or just because you like soft hands.  Grab your favorite oil or lotion, and be sure to gently pinch the soft spot between your thumb and pointer finger for extra relaxation.
5. Add fruit to your water. Your toddler didn’t finish his apple slices?  Toss a few into your water bottle or pitcher.  Slice up a lime or orange while you’re at it and toss those in, too.  If you’re feeling super fancy and have it on hand, add a mint leaf or two.  Stimulating your taste buds can help keep your mind clear and connected to your body.
6. Quote it. Find a short quote or poem. Read it. Twice. Return to it when you need to fuel your spirit.
7. Eat a spoonful of peanut butter. Or sunbutter. Or almond butter.  Or Nutella.  You probably need the protein or chocolate fix. Go ahead and do that now.

If all else fails, drink that extra cup of coffee, or turn up your favorite music and dance. Or hide.  Yep, sometimes straight up hiding can be self-care.

Oh, and if anyone has any ideas about how we can abolish the term “self-care” and replace it with something more fantastically fun, go for it.  Let me know.  We will sprinkle that phrase like glitter from a unicorn.

Take good care,
Carrie

The post 7 Speedy Self-Care Hacks for Busy People appeared first on Our Stable Table.

A few weeks ago, our local news station asked our family to do a news segment on FPIES.  We talk about FPIES almost weekly here in an effort to raise awareness around food allergies, and I’m all about raising awareness wherever and whenever I can. So, of course we said yes.

{Watch our story here.}

I love the story, I love how well they captured the sweetness of my boy, his gentle, joyful spirit, and most of all his interaction with his dad. The news got about 85% of the story right, and I’m grateful for that.  But they missed a few details, and one major detail that I want to express:

Echo’s illness changed everything.

From the ashes of that first year, a new life was born.  I don’t mean a human life, (although we were terrified of losing our baby for the first 18 months of his life).  But this.  This work, this site, this whole idea was formed from the grief.

In the summer of 2014, my long-time friend, Jessica, asked me to write our story for The Leaky Boob.  I was in the middle of dealing with massive PTSD, chronic mastitis from exclusively pumping milk from boobs that just wanted to quit, a crumbling marriage, and figuring out a way to keep our son alive and thriving in the midst of an illness nobody, even specialists, know much about. He had three “safe” foods at the time: TED breastmilk (wherein I was limited to 12 foods at one point in time), coconut oil, and spinach. Nightmares of feeding tubes and bankruptcy and divorce tormented my sleep, while emotional paralysis, physical pain, and extreme anxiety plagued me during the day.

I said yes to telling our story.  Beyond the fear and the trauma, I knew other families were dealing with the same issues.  They were dealing with the despair, discouragement, and constant barely-subdued terror that their child might not make it.  And what if their kid does make it?  What kind of life and wounds will this struggle indelibly imprint their little bodies and spirits with? I started three drafts, scrapped them all, and then Echo had a vomit reaction to green beans in the middle of it all.  And that was it.  The impetus I needed to get it all out in real time.

Our story isn’t just for FPIES families, though.  It is for every family who has faced unimaginable obstacles and trauma.  Maybe it looks like FPIES, maybe it looks like unknown illness, maybe it looks like a brain tumor or infant hearing loss.  Maybe it looks like a massive struggle with self-care or divorce or being a terrible friend for a season.

Telling our story gave me access to the power I needed to find my way through, even though I never quite knew the next step until I took it.  It gave me just enough Brave to inch ahead of my Scared, and continues to fuel the heart of this little corner of the Internet where I believe Everyone deserves a seat at this table.

Thank you for being a part of this community.

Thank you for continuing to give us, and other families, a voice.

Thank you for sharing posts that are relevant to you with people you love.

Thank you for enjoying the food and laughter and tears and gathering here to have a human experience. This doesn’t happen without you.

Thank you.

Love,
Carrie, Lance, and Echo

“Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. They come together and they fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy.”

― Pema Chödrön

The post Feeding Echo and Finding Purpose – Our Life with FPIES appeared first on Our Stable Table.

I am burned out with cooking. And a large part of my mission in life is cooking. Changing the conversation around food, around bodies, around babies and single people and periods and sex and family and allergies and wholeness and therapy and kombucha and…ALL OF IT.

I just have one small problem.

I want to flame my tiny pink kitchen down to the ground. Ignight it. Light it up and watch it burn down in a blaze of glory, a la Bon Jovi. (I will gladly let you film this spectacle as I stand in the middle of the flames wearing nothing but my mom jeans and an old leather vest that belonged to my grandma in the 1990s with my son’s pink ukulele strapped to my back in exchange for a lifetime of free Chipotle.)

Then I want to walk away, and never look back. 

This isn’t about food. This isn’t about my outdated micro kitchen. This isn’t even about my mission.

This is about self-care.

Last week, I started doing the thing where I eat trail mix for breakfast with a cup of coffee. Then I eat the same thing for lunch. I might grab a handful of cherry tomatoes or eat some cucumber slices off my son’s plate during lunch and start congratulating myself for making vegetables a “priority”. By the time dinner rolls around, I’m ravenous, have a terrible case of the bitchies and lose my words, so I groan and cry and end up laying on my bed in complete despair when I should be making dinner for my family. That is the moment when I want to douse my kitchen in gasoline, light it up with my Namaste candle and run away.

The trail mix is a bad sign, my friends. It means I’m giving up. I HATE GIVING UP. But sometimes I hate the process of not giving up more. It feels good to pretend I can’t cook. It feels like a whole lotta relief to plan to cook dinner and then say “eff it” at the last minute and orderThai takeout instead. It’s like a shot of heroin or the feeling you get when you cancel plans last minute because you want to stay home and watch Netflix in yoga pants and you have a legit, last-minute reason to do it.

Don’t get me wrong.  These food hacks are totally okay. We all hit our max, and sometimes we live at our max for extended periods of time without much relief.  There are seasons. I get it. I’ve been there.

But this isn’t it.

This is abandoning my commitment to taking care of myself.  So, now that the world knows what that looks like, here’s what maintaining my commitment to taking care of myself looks like.

(Note: It might look differently for you, so no judgment here.  Pound that trail (mix).)

Ready?

1. Hot breakfast.
2. The end.

I don’t eat many grains because, with the exception of rice and sometimes oats, they really tear my stomach up.  Plus, I FEEL better when I eat a protein and veggie heavy breakfast during the rest of the day. I like the feeling of something warm in my belly, too. It reminds me that my body is served best when I care for it in small ways.  Plus, I don’t have to fight the trail mix bitchies.

Here is my plan of action: Fritatta. I make one large fritatta, portion it out into individual servings, and heat it up in the toaster oven while I get ready in the mornings.  This is all it takes to make me nice.  Well, this and a cup or seven of coffee.

This simple, humble little egg dish is great.  You can make a million different variations of it, but here is my absolute favorite. The fact that I can go outside and gather many of these ingredients from my garden is a total bonus.

Ingredients:

• 12 eggs
• 1 cup cheese (I prefer parmesan or asiago)
• 1/2 cup half and half
• 1 lb of browned sausage or cooked bacon, crumbled (I prefer mild Italian sausage, but you can skip meat altogether to make this vegetarian.)
• 1 medium onion, sauteed
• 12 oz chopped broccoli
• 2 medium zucchini, chopped
• 2 large tomatoes or 1 pint of cherry tomatoes, chopped
• 1 large bunch of swiss chard or spinach, roughly chopped
• 3 Tbsp of fresh herbs of your choice, or 1 Tbsp dried herbs. (I use rosemary, basil, and thyme from the garden)
• 1 tsp black pepper
• 1 tsp sea salt
• 1 tsp red pepper flakes (if not using sausage)

Directions:

1. Whisk together eggs, milk, herbs, salt, and pepper.  Mix in shredded cheese.
2. Add protein and veggies, and mix thoroughly.
3. In a large, greased baking dish, bake at 350 degrees for one hour, or until the middle is cooked all the way through.
4. Remove from oven and serve immediately.  Cut into individual portions and reheat in the oven or toaster oven for 12 minutes at 350 degrees.

My individual frittata portions are hanging out in my fridge, ready to be heated and eaten all week long. I blasted Bon Jovi’s greatest hits while prepping and cooking and cleaning up the kitchen to make this all a little more tolerable.  But I digress. I WILL TAKE CARE OF MYSELF THIS WEEK.  I hope you can, too.

Call Me Young Gun,
Carrie

The post Garden Vegetable Frittata appeared first on Our Stable Table.

I am a shitty friend.

For 33 years, I showed up. I checked in when we missed connecting for too long. I saved  hard earned pennies to go to music festivals, embark on international adventures, and attend weddings, funerals, and graduations. Sometimes, I  hopped in my car and drove all night just to hang out with you because I missed you and I could. We cracked jokes. We talked deep for hours. We threw parties and planned adventures and surprises. We walked every step of our treacherous, joyful, fearful, conflicted, soul-seeking journey together. We shared sacred space in our hearts. Even when distance and difficulties stretched out between us, we always made our way back to each other

We became family.

I wasn’t always consistent. In fact, I can be a total jerkfaceasshole. And I really hate the phone, so that was never my strong suit. But you knew when your phone rang and I was on the other end, I would be 100% yours the whole time.

I wasn’t perfect. But I was all in.

When I got pregnant a few years ago, dynamics shifted dramatically. I puked my guts up for six months, and it took every ounce of energy to keep my part-time job and be a nominally decent human. I birthed an amazing baby who suffered a stroke, survived, and was given a life-altering medical diagnosis that made the most normal things ridiculously difficult. We were all thrust into chronic survival mode, became overnight experts on the medical system and waged a wild war to keep our baby alive and thriving. I was attached to a breast pump for almost two years. In truth, I have almost zero recollection of most of my mom-life. My brain and short-term memory have taken a blissful hiatus in order to continue the essential act of living. But of the sparse, dream-like moments I manage to recapture, I am painfully aware that I have been a shitty friend to you.

I’m sorry.

Motherhood has been magical and transformative. It has changed me in a million wonderful ways. It has also been an indescribable nightmare. PTSD, PPD, and PPA in addition to the normal physical/emotional/psychological challenges of new motherhood almost wrecked me. You listen with compassion and want to understand what’s happening. You want to be with me every bit as much I want to not be so alone in this. But there are no words for the challenges my family is facing. There is no way to bring you all the way to the core of this experience.  I can barely handle the pressure of it myself. I’ve had to hang on with all my might to keep even an ounce of that free-spirited, bright-spark, I-will-do-anything-for-you friend that you love. I know you miss her.

I miss her, too.

My grace, my energy, my bright spark – it all goes to my son and partner right now. I don’t think it’s going to change any time soon.

And here is my present day reality: If there is something left after all of the doctor’s appointments, therapies, fighting insurance companies and working during naptimes and early mornings and late nights to alleviate the unbearable financial burden this stupid syndrome has placed on our little family, I unapologetically take it for myself. Because I can’t do life if I’m an empty husk inside.

I miss you. I miss my freedom. I miss being someone you can count on. I miss showing up on your doorstep at 1AM to hug you when your heart is breaking and laughing until we’ve completely forgotten how we started to begin with. Those days will come again. In the meantime, that grace you posses…the ability to navigate life and stay connected and keep things moving so well with your own set of challenges? Yeah, that. Your super power. I could really use a little bit of it now. I know it’s not fair to you because I am not an equal partner in our friendship during this season.  But I need you anyway.

I’m on my way back to myself. I’m on my way back to you, too. I promise. It’s slow progress, but it’s happening one tiny step at a time. I still love you and you still matter to me, maybe now more than ever before.

And I’m still (always) all in.

Thank you for staying.

xoxo,

Your Shitty Friend

The post I’m A Shi**y Friend. {A Letter From An Overwhelmed Mama} appeared first on Our Stable Table.

I loved it.

I lived in old, adorable, slightly crusty houses with my best friends.  Original hardwood floors, seven layers of wallpaper that we determined MUST come off the walls before we could settle there, and yards perfect for laying down under the stars. Once a month, we had Family Dinner.  We invited our circle of friends, (and their friends) to come over, enjoy a simple meal, and hang out.  It usually ended with candles, guitars, original music by our crazy talented friends, lots of ridiculous jokes, and sometimes riding out a tornado warning in our ultra-creepy basement.

We were lucky.  Our group of friends just WORKED.  Compared to many of my other friends’ college experiences, our group of friends experienced very little drama.  Even from the beginning, we were determined to have fun and do great things and live like bohemians.  And we did. Kind of.

15 years later, we are still friends.  We lost a few friends early on, gained a few spouses, a couple of kids and dogs, and somehow all ended up on the West Coast within just a few hours of each other.  It became clear to us when we landed here that we are no longer friends.

We are a tribe.

In the interest of transparency, we work each other’s nerves sometimes.  We bicker occasionally.  We get angry and shut each other out.  We drift and pull apart.

But we always come back together.

House buying, baby making, parents passing, marriage failing, business thriving, seasons changing…all of it. When it all comes together or falls to pieces, we are usually the first ones to know and always the safest place to land.

A couple of years ago, one of our tribespeople was offered the use of a beach house.  We filled up the house for a long weekend in July.  Last year, we did it again.  And this year I’m writing this post from the same house.

The long Tribe weekend is vital for me.  I can’t speak for the rest of them, but I can say that for myself, I NEED it.  Each family takes a turn cooking dinner, and we eat and drink and laugh and relax after a long day of beach-combing and hiking.

We are lucky.

This year, I chose one of my family’s favorite dishes: lasagna.  This year has seen some really dramatic circumstances in our tribe, and we needed to feel hugged from the inside out.  What better to do that with than noodles and sauce and cheese?  NOTHING, that’s what.

And even though this is exactly like your mom’s lasagna, she didn’t make it.  I DID. And I’m a mom.  So maybe I should rename this post “I’m A Mom Now Lasagna”?

Ingredients:

• 2 quarts red sauce (for my recipe using fresh tomatoes, click here for the Green Child Magazine article)
• 1 box uncooked, gluten free lasagna noodles (I prefer Tinkiyada brand)
• 24 oz shredded mozzerella
• 12 whole milk ricotta
• 1/2 cup parmesan cheese, shredded
• 1 lb ground beef, browned

Directions:

1. In a large skillet, brown ground beef.  Transfer beef to paper towel lined plate.
2. Pour a tablespoon of the ground beef drippings into your large glass casserole dish, and use it to grease the sides and bottom of pan. Discard the rest of the drippings.
3. Heat sauce slowly until warm in skillet, and add meat.
4. In your large, greased casserole dish, layer noodles, sauce, ricotta, then mozzarella IN THIS ORDER. You should have three layers.
5. Sprinkle parmesan on top, cover with foil, and bake at 400 for 90 minutes.
6. Remove foil, and broil the top of the lasagna for 2 minutes on high.
7. Serve immediately with salad and box of your best wine.

You already feel hugged from the inside, don’t you? I do.  Well, maybe that’s because I just ate two helpings of it.  But whatever.  The Tribe liked it and that’s the thing that matters.  But since you’re a part of our extended tribe, I’m pretty sure you will, too.

Still Saucy,
Carrie

PS ~ In case you missed it, here’s a screen cap of the red sauce recipe I made for Green Child Mag.

The post Not Your Mom’s Lasagna {Gluten Free) appeared first on Our Stable Table.

I didn’t realize for a long time (really, way too long) that Strawberry Shortcake was a real thing.  I don’t even remember having actual strawberries until we moved to Texas when I was in elementary school.  And I definitely don’t remember eating strawberry shortcake until I was in second grade at the school Field Day.

That shortcake was…not amazing.  It was made with the store bought spongy, yellow mini-cakes baked into little flat-top basins to hold the strawberries and whipped cream.  The strawberries were glazed and tasted like my Strawberry Shortcake doll smelled. A spoonful of Cool Whip completed the dish and it was…not my favorite thing I’d ever had.  I really wanted it to be.

Eventually, I outgrew my love of Strawberry Shortcake and her friends and mostly avoided the dessert for many years after that.  It wasn’t until college that I tried it again at a swanky resturant at the urging of my best friend.

Holy moly.

It was one of the most mind-blowingly delicious things I had ever tasted.  The shortcake was more like a biscuit, and everything was fresh and texturally spot on.

I’m not exaggerating when I say I’ve spent ten years trying to recreate that shortcake.

This is the closest I’ve come.  I didn’t realize until I eliminated gluten from my diet that the shortcake I had tried so hard to replicate most likely was made using almond flour.  Once I unlocked that piece, the rest was a breeze.

Ingredients:

• 2 cups sliced strawberries
• 2 cups blanched almond flour (I use Bob’s Red Mill)
• 2 eggs*
• 3/4 cup butter, cold and cubed, or melted coconut or avocado oil
• 1 scant cup cassava flour (wheat flour can be substituted)
• 2 Tbsp raw honey, or other sweetener
• 2 tsp apple cider vinegar
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1/2 tsp sea salt
• 1/2 tsp baking powder
• 1/2 tsp nutmeg

Directions:

1. Combine the almond flour, cassava flour, baking soda, salt, and nutmeg in a medium mixing bowl.
2. Add butter to the flour mixture and cut into flour until the butter is in tiny pieces.
3. In a small bowl, combine eggs, vanilla extract, apple cider vinegar, and honey.  Whisk until fully incorporated.
4. Add egg mixture to flour mixture and stir until barely combined.
5. Spoon mixture onto a parchment paper-lined baking sheet, or bake in lined muffin tins.
6. Bake at 350 degrees for 15-20 minutes.
7. Pile with strawberries and whipped topping of your choice.

*If you want to make this egg-free, go for it!  To replace two eggs, I used 2 Tbsp ground flax seeds, 3 Tbsp water, 1 Tbsp apple cider vinegar.

Now that I know what strawberry shortcake can be, I’ll never go back.  I still miss my Strawberry Shortcake doll, though, and secretly wish for a daughter so I can justify buying all the Strawberry Swag.

Strawberrylicious,
Carrie

The post Strawberry Shortcake {Paleo and Vegan} appeared first on Our Stable Table.

During the first few months of E’s life, he was drugged heavily to keep seizures at bay.  Once he weaned from the medicine and the effects wore off, he wanted very little to do with being close to me.  He rejected the boob, he rejected mommy’s comfort unless I was the only person available to hold and soothe him. My efforts to console, rock, and hold him close were met with terrified eyes, cries of protest an arching back, or hyperactivity. Yes, it was heartbreaking for me.  But I also fully understood the profound trauma he had experienced, and even though I ached to be his safe place, I knew I wasn’t.  I accepted it, supported him in his choice, and tried my hardest not to take it personally.

E has always been affectionate and sweet, generous with kisses and cuddles (as long as we are standing or sitting upright), and loves his mama. I see it in his eyes, in his playful actions. We laugh and joke and play with ease. But E has never been able to just let go and relax with me.  And he definitely hasn’t been able to sleep next to me.

If I’m completely vulnerable here, I couldn’t relax with him either.  E stopped breathing at my breast.  I blew air into his lungs to keep him alive.  For many days, I didn’t know if he would live or die.  For many months after that, E and I did not trust each other.  E didn’t trust my milk, my breast, my body.  I didn’t trust that E would stay, that he would keep breathing, keep overcoming.

Our trust was broken.

That moment, us cuddling and E sleeping on the couch?  That moment was our healing. The PTSD losing it’s iron-like hold on our hearts.  Our final defenses crumbling down. Both of us giving up the idea of control or hyper-vigilance and relaxing into what our bond is now.  It is unbearably sweet, tenuous, and victorious. It is brand new.

I can trust my son to stay and he can trust me to keep him safe.

I shared our couch cuddle with the Internet because these moments, the small victories that signify huge change and growth, often go unnoticed by us.  Unmarked.  Undocumented.  Unseen by others.  In the midst of heartbreak and fear, exhaustion and anxiety, these are the moments that keep me going.  It fuels me to keep fighting to restore what we have lost as a family, and advocate for the families out there who experience adversity that comes with life-altering circumstances.

So, I have a request: I want your moments. I want your #tinytriumphs.  I want your pictures, the small things that equal big progress and healing in your life and in your family.  I want to share these with other families who often feel hopeless and helpless (like my husband and I often do), because we need each other.  We need to be reminded of victory, even when it stings our exposed wounds.  This is how we move forward, even when the progress is painfully slow.

Here’s how you do it:

• Send us your picture with a narrative of what is significant about that moment, around 100-300 words.  Fewer words are okay, too.

Ways to submit your #tinytriumphs:

1. Email me.  Carrie at ourstabletable dot com.
2. Tag OST on FB or IG, and be sure to change the settings to “Public” if you want us to share.
3. Private message OST, and we will share it publicly.
4. Include the #tinytriumphs in the post.

I can’t promise we will be able to share all of the submissions, but we will certainly try.  Because we need this.

We grow together, we mourn together, we celebrate together.  Everyone deserves a seat at the table, and your moments matter here.

The post #TinyTriumphs appeared first on Our Stable Table.

She was a total fox, right?

She was full of snap and sparkle.  She had a sharp tongue and quick wit.  She lived a wild life before leaving this world at the ripe age of 91. In her younger years, she smooched plenty of cute boys, danced until dawn with a young Merv Griffin, Aaron Spelling, and Errol Flynn in San Francisco during WWII. She survived a near fatal car accident that resulted in a broken back, and a million other crazy things that would amaze you.  In her later years, Gram kicked a life-long addiction to alcohol, became the belle of her church singles group when she was in her 70’s after my grandfather passed away, and loved riding on the back of her church friends’ motorcycles in her leather Harley vest and boots. She was a complicated, outspoken, generous and amazing lady. I loved Gram then, and I love her still, brambles and all.

Gram was a devoted veggie lover. I’ve actually never seen anyone eat more vegetables without juicing them.  She ate a big salad for lunch every single day, and always ate salad at dinner, too.  And then she ate more veggies on the side.  She obsessed over vegetables, and salads in particular.  I’m certain her consumption of vegetables will be remembered for decades to come.

A few years ago, I found myself preparing a meal for most of my extended family for a small reception after Gram’s memorial service.  And since salad was her very favorite food group, I had to honor her, right?

Since 90% of the prep had to be done the night before, I needed to find something that could withstand overnight storage.  I needed to pull it out of the fridge and get it on the table in 10 minutes.  It also had to be something that I could eat and that my family would want to eat.  (Sometimes, we don’t always like the same things.  Shocking, I know.)

Kale definitely fit the bill. I knew that my mom would really like it, since she is my Gram’s daughter.  I knew my brother would probably try it, even though he really dislikes kale, just because he trusts my cooking.  I also have a previous track record of helping him overcome aversions to certain foods, like brussels sprouts.  My dad is ridiculously easy to please.  My cousin and his wife are mostly vegetarian, and are fairly food-adventurous.  As for the rest of the family, they would either try it to be nice, or discreetly move on to the chicken salad and veggie tray.

But all those reasons aside, I knew Gram would love this dish and enjoy every bite. I hummed her favorite 40’s songs while I prepped, and smiled when I served it in her favorite wooden salad bowl.

Ingredients:

2 bunches of kale, de-stemmed and cut into ribbons

2 cruncy apples, sliced into little quarter-moon pieces (I prefer honey crisp or pink lady)

1/2 cup dried unsweetened blueberries or currants

1/2 cup pine nuts

3 Tbsp (heaping) stone ground mustard

1 Tbsp white wine vinegar

2 tsp basalmic vinegar

1/2 small lemon

1/2 tsp grated nutmeg

black pepper to taste

Directions:

1. In a VERY LARGE BOWL, place your prepared kale, apples, mustard, vinegars, mustard and lemon juice then mix well.
2. Add dried blueberries, pine nuts and nutmeg
3. Mix everything together using your hands and gently squeeze until kale starts to reduce slightly in volume.
4. Taste it.  What does it need?  Pepper?  More nutmeg?  More baslamic vinegar?  Add it.
5. Transfer to a sealed container and store in refrigerator for up to 3 days.

Making food that connects me to the people I love long after they’ve passed is a way for me to actively keep who they were to me alive and tangible, even through a dish as simple as a salad.  The power of food is incredible.  Thank you for letting me share it with you.

Veggie Lover for Life,
Carrie

The post Kale Waldorf Salad appeared first on Our Stable Table.

Here’s my conclusion:

I am not orthorexic.

Whew!  Now let’s get on with the rest of the post.

*Disclaimer – This is the closest you’ll ever get to “before” and “after” photos on this blog.  And you’ll notice I left out my body.  It’s on purpose.  Pay attention to the eyes, because that’s where the story takes place.

Several years ago, I went hardcore paleo.  I made a huge shift in my diet because as it turns out, eating sugar, most grains and processed foods when you have PCOS can be detrimental to your health.

I made a change to help heal my body, balance my hormones and reduce inflammation. I also wanted to lose weight, and possibly boost my fertility. After two years on the paleo diet, I felt amazing.  In fact, I felt better at 32 than I did at 22.  It was a very positive change for me, and I felt committed to continuing the lifestyle.

When I became pregnant, my body revolted.  Food was torturous.  I was puking 10 times a day and stepping foot in the kitchen caused me to retch uncontrollably.  I agonized over giving up my paleo ways, even though 1/2 a croissant and a few sips of a latte were the only thing I could keep down for several weeks.  A woman who I greatly respected and admired in my professional life saw me eat a bite of croissant one day at work. I was down 17 lbs from my pre-pregnancy weight, and struggled to keep even a little food in my stomach.  She scolded me in front of my co-workers and within earshot of clients and impassionately proclaimed, “Your baby doesn’t need carbs!”.  That was it. My wake up call. MY BABY NEEDED CARBS. And so did I if we were going to get through this pregnancy.

After that point, I gave exactly zero f*cks about eating grains.  As it turned out, my body needed grains to make milk for my son and I continued to eat them with abandon and without an ounce of guilt.  I tuned out the women who openly spoke to me about my food choices and weight (both positively and negatively) during pregnancy and after.  Their opinions weren’t helpful to me either way.

A formerly vegan friend told me a story about when she decided to no longer be a vegan.  She was part of her local herbivore community and found great support there. After five years of vigilant veganism, she broadened her daily menu to include animal protein. She agonized over it, but her body needed more than plants to survive. She told her vegan community.  Some were accepting and wished her well.  Others were not.   Sentiments like, “I’m sorry your body craves the flesh of dead animals” and “How can you sleep at night?” and “Enjoy eating that chicken’s period” were volleyed back at her.

WTF.

We can all tune into what feels good in our bodies. And what feels good isn’t necessarily what is good, but only you are qualified to make that distinction. I am an advocate of eating whatever food makes you feel good.  Not what other people tell you to eat, or Dr. Oz,  or your grandma, or The Internet, or Big Ag.  And especially not what judgy people with no professional experience tell you to eat.

We eat “clean” at our house.  We eat properly raised animal proteins.  We eat mostly organic produce when we can afford it, and get creative in order to make that possible.  We eat grains in moderation and avoid wheat and refined sugar altogether.  We feel better when we make conscious decisions about what we fuel our bodies with.  We eat junk food occasionally and have seasons where we eat it way too much.  Then we feel terrible and go back to our clean eating because it works for us.  We are nicer, kinder, less stressed, and our bodies function better when we are consistent with our right-for-us food choices.

Orthorexia exists.  I’m certain it is a real disorder that affects people in profound ways, and I’ve seen it in my industry and in my community.  I came (too) close to it.  I struggled with an eating disorder during my teens and early 20’s, so I’m extra vigilant about not making food my religion.

With that said, there’s another side to this story.

Please don’t mistake eating what makes your body feel good with a disorder.  Unless you are a doctor  or licensed mental health professional, you have no business judging people’s food choices.

And for the rest of us?

Eat with awareness.

• If you feel more energetic after eating something, take notice.
• If something you eat makes you feel guilty, take notice.
• If you feel more satisfied when you eat certain foods, take notice.
• If you are terrified to eat something when you’re not certain of the source, and you don’t have a legit allergy or intolerance, take notice.
• If you eat a certain way because someone told you to and it doesn’t line up with your values or current needs, take notice.
• If your body feels inflamed, painful, or achy after eating something, take notice.
• If you eat in secret, take notice.
• If you feel shame around food, take notice.
• If people shame you about what you are eating, take notice. (And tell them to mind their own damn business.)

It’s easy to make a judgment and slap a label on disordered eating.  Tabloids and busybodies do it all the time. It’s also easy to judge people based on physical appearance. And guess what?  Those are acts of emotional brutality.  Unless it is personally causing you harm or bringing serious harm to a minor or elderly person, knock it off.  It’s not your business what somebody looks like or what they eat.  Leave that up to trained professionals.

I’m returning to my paleo ways for a while because it works for me again at this stage in my life.  But we are going to Texas next month and you’d better believe I’m going to murder some chips and queso and maybe a taco or two. I will feel zero guilt about it.

We are more than our bodies.  We are more than a number on the scale.  We are more than our food.

Love,
Carrie

 

 

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