Healthy Eating Blues - The Oatmeal Edition, Part 3

There is a part of me that thinks perhaps in my quest to make oatmeal taste good, I am making something that is supposed to be healthy quite unhealthy, and thus defeating the whole purpose of eating oatmeal in the first place. At the very least I believe I am lowering the “healthy” factor. Especially after watching a recent episode of Top Chef (DC) when one of the chefs mentioned how much sodium and fat peanut butter contains. Great.

Then I reminded myself that I am trying to eat healthier. Maybe one day I will make the leap to unadulterated oatmeal, but that day is not today. I’m pretty sure it won’t be tomorrow, either. I guess it was like my Hershey’s Kisses philosophy when this whole endeavor began: eating oatmeal with Hershey’s Kisses is better than eating Hershey’s Kisses without oatmeal.

That is going to have to be good enough for now.

Well, since I learned about the relative evils of peanut butter, I decided to omit it from my oatmeal in this week’s batch. It has made my Tupperware easier to wash. Guess there is a lot of fat in there.

At first, I thought about adding syrup as my sweetener. I have two kinds of syrup – like people have two kinds of china – the good kind and the everyday kind. The good kind is 100% maple. The junk kind consists of < 2% maple and/or maple flavoring. I hesitated to use the good (i.e., real) syrup, because what if I did not like it or needed quite a bit to flavor my oatmeal? You see, I learned from the honey experience that oatmeal somehow whisks away the sweetness, so you have to add a lot of it (seemingly, at least) to gain any kind of taste benefit.

Wow, I am on the upswing of the oatmeal learning curve!

Anyway, I nixed the “maple” syrup idea since when I read the label of the “everyday” syrup, it is waaaayyy worse for you nutritionally than peanut butter. So I went back to my brown sugar option and added a splash of honey as a bonus. I also had a nice, ripe mango, so I diced that and added it into the mix. Adding a couple of hearty shakes from my unsweetened cocoa powder canister and I was in business. Not quite Flavor Town, but maybe a distant, but neighboring county. At least we were in the same State (think Vermont, not Alaska). Kinda.

Frankly, I am somewhat surprised that I have been able to sustain my four-day-a-week oatmeal consumption well into Week Number Three. But now is not the time to allow arrogance to swagger in . . . rolling its hips and making that irritating chin lift of acknowledgment. I think that the one-month mark may serve as a saturation point. Righteous intention and plucky stick-to-it-ness can only sustain you for so long. It will become significantly harder to maintain my whole grain commitment in the next several weeks. Especially since I do not see any measurable benefits. I don’t feel or look better. I don’t have more energy. I don’t eat less.

Now that I am depressing myself, I will cling ever more tenaciously to the idea that eating oatmeal/10-grain hot cereal is good for my insides. Yes, not just good, but incredibly good for my insides. Monumentally beneficial for my insides. In fact, every time I eat oatmeal, my insides rejoice and give thanks for the spectacular bounty presented to them.

Oatmeal, oatmeal, rah, rah, rah.

*sigh*

Maybe I’m hitting the wall before my first month is up.

Healthy Eating Blues - The Oatmeal Edition, Part 2

Week Two of the oatmeal extravaganza has commenced. I actually had oatmeal for breakfast for four days last week.

I added more honey to my too-bland oatmeal and it improved, but not by much. Perhaps I did not buy a good quality of honey, which is why it is so ineffective. I got it on sale. Oh well.

This week I am trying something new. It has promise. It has not been perfected yet, but if I stick to this “healthier eating” thing (no pun intended), maybe I will get much closer to having yummy oatmeal without it being an oxymoron.

This time when I made my pot of oatmeal, I added two heaping tablespoons of brown sugar, a huge dollop of creamy peanut butter, a generous amount of ground cinnamon, a splash of vanilla extract and an overly enthusiastic amount (i.e., think the tincture of tenderness Professor Weirdo added to the making of Milton the Monster) of unsweetened ground cocoa. When I reheat it to eat, I add some chocolate soy milk to loosen it up.

Okay, definitely too much cocoa powder. Now, I do not ascribe to the belief that there is such a thing as too much chocolate. I mean seriously, what is that about? That is just an anathema to me. But in this case, I spilled so much cocoa powder in there that the oatmeal has a grainy texture that is not pleasing. Also, because of my previous lack-of-sweetness experience with honey, I added extra brown sugar and then some honey on top of it. Surprise! My oatmeal is much too sweet.

Next time (yes, there will be a next time…hello, Week Three!), I will skip the honey, lessen the brown sugar a tad, not spill the cocoa powder and I hope to have something much yummier and palate pleasing.

I think the peanut butter is a nice addition. Oatmeal is already filling, but the added fillip of fat (not to mention the great taste) of peanut butter really makes it a hearty and satisfying breakfast.

I think those Hot Pockets may last a little longer in my freezer.

Healthy Eating Blues - The Oatmeal Edition

I like food. A lot. Therefore, it follows that taste is an important factor. I like food to be delicious. Scrumptious. Scrumpdeliumptious, in fact.

Unfortunately, scrumpdeliumptious food is not always good for you. And, as my age increases and my already lethargic metabolism decreases, I am trying to eat healthier. I believe the two key elements in that sentence are the word “trying” and the suffix “-ier” at the end of “healthy.” I am trying . . . as in making an attempt. I do not yet know if I will have any measure of success (unless one attempt is considered successful, which I am not ruling out). I hope I will continue on this unknown path, but only time will tell. Also, I’m not exactly eating healthy, but trying to insert dollops of healthy in my current diet, which perhaps, if one was generous, can be described as health-as-a-well-meaning-afterthought. If one was very generous.

So, today I have begun my foray into healthier eating by having oatmeal for breakfast. Not the flavored instant oats with its high fructose corn syrup, sodium and random dehydrated fruits, but steel-cut oatmeal. Yup, I’m going hardcore.

I tried to jazz it up with some lovely, plump blueberries and fresh, sweet diced mango. By the way, “jazz it up” is a euphemism for “make it palatable.”

Now, I am not saying that healthy eating and deliciousness are mutually exclusive. I know they are not. However, I know they don’t always necessarily trip hand-in-hand down Culinary Lane. As in my current situation.

Anyway, my breakfast looked really pretty . . . purple-blue orbs and soft but firm bright orange cubes nestled in my almost fluffy looking grains. And it looked creamy, thanks to the natural starches in the oatmeal, enhanced by my addition of vanilla-flavored soymilk. And although the mango was sweet, I added a little swirl of honey from the tummy of my plastic bear.

It helped . . . a little. Not much, though. Not enough.

Apparently, steel-cut oats suck up any sugary goodness and whisk it away to someplace where my taste buds cannot journey. It was so bland and unappealing. So much so that I opened a few Hershey kisses to eat with the bland gloppiness. I figured eating some chocolate with my oatmeal is better than eating chocolate without oatmeal. It makes perfect sense to me.

Next time I’ll add more honey and see how it goes. If not, I have a bunch of pepperoni pizza Hot Pockets in my freezer.

Drips and Dribbles and Spills, Oh My!

I have a problem. Well technically, I have several problems, I suppose, but there is one in particular I wish to discuss. For some unfathomable reason, I am unable to remain clean while I eat. I could understand this if I was careless or lacked decorum, but I am generally a polite and conscientious eater. All right, in full disclosure, I may occasionally talk with food in my mouth. Oh, and I also eat off of other people’s plates, but only with an invitation and just to steal a couple of french fries or something like that.

But other than that, very polite and conscientious. I mean, I do not chew with my mouth open. I ask my fellow diners to pass me things rather than reaching over them. I do my best to avoid drips and dribbles. I tend to use the correct silverware for its intended purpose. Most people would find me a decorous, non-embarrassing dining partner.

Despite all this, I almost always manage to get food on me. Usually my blouse and/or my hair. Of course, if I drip sauce on my hair, it eventually touches my blouse leaving a stain. I am baffled, because I honestly make a conscientious effort to eat neatly (ever since I noticed my propensity to stain my blouses). I try not to splatter sauce if eating noodles; I endeavor not to drip soup or some ooey, gooey dip; and I am focused when eating salad with dressing.

It has made me paranoid and distracted. When eating out, I continually look at my shirt and hair to see if I made a mess. One minute I am fine, clean and pristine. The next minute . . . glop. Pass me a napkin and an individually packaged “Shout” towelette. So, if we ever happen to eat together, please do not be offended if I seem to be looking down my shirt rather than listening to your scintillating conversation. It’s me, not you.

I saw a Japanese movie recently called, “Gu-Gu the Cat.” The main character kept getting rice in her hair. I could totally relate. I remember eating a teishoku meal at Sushi King (teri chicken and shrimp tempura with sauce, of course). I had to ask my friend to drop me off at home before going to the movie so I could change my shirt! I had speckles of sauce and other debris on me and did not want to go to the movie theatre (aka out in public) like that. Yesterday, as I was hanging up my blouse I noticed some red/pinkish dust near my top button and lapels. It was remnants of my lunch which included Flaming Hot Cheetos.

So what is wrong with me? I could understand if I was a total slob or unconscious of any of the social graces related to eating. (Makes me think of the Friends episode in which Ross is dating a well-put together woman whose apartment is disgustingly slovenly). It is to the point where I am putting off cutting my hair (to donate it), because a part of me fears losing my ability to cover my uncomely splotches and splooches.

I am seriously thinking of creating some kind of quasi-fashionable bib to wear when I go out to eat. It’s either that or only eat at lobster shaks. Of course, I have no idea what this quasi-fashionable bib would look like. I am even calling it quasi-fashionable, because I already recognize the impossibility of wearing any type of bib while I eat and calling it fashionable.

Has it come to this? A plastic parka as my signature fashion statement? *Sigh* Guess I better go to Longs and stock up on Shout towelettes.

Movie Popcorn Amnesia

Like a siren’s call to unsuspecting sailors, so is movie popcorn to me. That roasty, toasty smell of freshly popped corn. The bag, overflowing in its bounty. The “butter” coating each kernel so it catches and reflects the light just so. The satisfying crunchy texture. The salty goodness tantalizing my taste buds. Yes, it is difficult to resist movie popcorn.

So I eat it. I munch and I devour. My fingers become slick with oil, with a touch of traction provided by the salt. My lips glossy with butter-flavored goodness. Somehow it is easy to lose track of how much I am eating while I am being entertained by the action and dialog on the big screen in front of me. Watch, grab, chew, swallow . . . repeat.

Unfortunately, by the time the credits are rolling, so is my previously happy belly. Somehow, the light, fluffy kernels have turned into rusty lead pellets working their way through my intestines – and not in a nice, orderly way, but in a not nice, disorderly way. The unholy combination of fibrous popcorn absorbing liquid and butter-flavored product greasing my insides serve to disrupt the delicate balance of my gastro-intestinal tract.

I will groan tonight. I shall toss and turn, in a vain attempt to find some comfortable position. A position that will quiet the quite-irritated-on-the-verge-of-being-quite-angry stomach of mine that is rebelling against my movie popcorn indulgence. But alas, alack! No position exists and as I lie curled in a fetal position at the mercy of my aging innards, I will ponder how they no longer possess the ability to take the abuse it would literally have sucked up in its younger years. That is, if I am able to ponder anything at all.

One would think that an intelligent, well-educated individual such as myself would spare myself the agony and skip the movie popcorn. But no, like the true siren’s call, it bids me to chomp anew. Each time, like the first time, I am compelled to answer the call. I settle into my seat in the cool, dark room, snuggling my bag of popcorn close to my heart. I smell the familiar smell and I happily begin stuffing my face . . . four, even five kernels at a time. Like movie popcorn had never upset my stomach before. Movie popcorn amnesia. I’ve got it. I’ve got it bad.

I Heart Eating

I like to eat. Seriously. I really like to eat. Eating is a sensual experience for me (not sexual…there’s a significant difference). I do not eat just to provide my body with sufficient nutrients to function properly, but I engage all my senses. My eyes admire the colors and plating, my ears hear the sizzle (if any), my nose smells the delectable scents, and my mouth and tongue feel the different textures and taste the combination of flavors. *sigh* Puts me in a rapturous mood just thinking about it.

I am one of those people who can be groaning about how full I am, but still talk incessantly about food and what my next meal will entail. Yeah, don’t judge me. We all have our little eccentricities.

Some people feel it is too much trouble to cook just for themselves. Unless they’re cooking for a bunch of people, they will settle for a peanut butter sandwich or cereal for dinner. I am not one of those people. I totally feel like I deserve a great meal if that is what I want (I have gone the cereal route before and that’s fine if you’re in the mood). I will make myself an appetizer, entrée and dessert. I’ll dirty multiple pans and plates just for me. No one else. I truly think those other people don’t love themselves enough.

I think it is my love of eating that triggers my joy for cooking. Cooking can be very creative. I can’t draw (unless you count stick figures). I can’t do crafts (I’ve been a paste-in-hair-can’t-cut-in-a-straight-line kind of kid since kindergarten). I don’t play a musical instrument well (I know, I know, 11 years of piano and I can only play “Chopsticks?” What a waste of my parents’ well-earned money). My poetry is sophomoric and pretentious. What creative outlet is open to me but cooking? And it melds so nicely with the fact that I love to eat! I am one of those people lucky enough to usually really enjoy what I make.

Except for the Grand Marnier soufflé. That was a total disaster; and not even Julia Child could have fixed it. Not even if she could do magic. How can something be rubbery and hard and mushy at the same time?

Other things are on the fence…like when I added peanut butter to this hamburger and chile mixture to serve over rice. Not a winner, but not horrible either. I think I just needed more heat (should have used sambal)…

And sometimes things turn out fantastic. The frustrating thing is that it is often difficult to recreate those dishes. I tend to use whatever I have on hand and throw in on a whim whatever I think would work well together. If it turns out to be a keeper, I can’t remember what I put in it the previous time and then, of course, it doesn’t quite taste the same. Bleh.

Of course, I am writing all this immediately after finishing a meal. Or should I say, experiencing my meal! I made this chicken dish with bacon, garlic, rosemary and lemon. Pretty darn good, if I do say so myself! And I do! Happy eating . . .