Food, Health, Life

Reese’s peanut butter cups and Wheat Thins – I’ve eaten bags and boxes of them both. In my thirties, I’d come home hungry from work or grocery shopping. Instead of preparing a salad or normal dinner for myself, I’d feed the kids, then curl up with the bag of peanut butter cups. I’d ball up wrapper after wrapper and toss across the room for fun. Eventually I’d collect them and dump them into the trashcan. I’d tally 20 or more of those babies without a shred of guilt. Physically, I felt fine, afterward; no stomach ache and no significant weight gain (since I had skipped NORMAL dinner.) It was practically a Friday night ritual. In later years, while I waited for my husband to come home from work, I’d snack. I arrived home shortly after 5 o’clock, but he had a one hour drive, so I’d start dinner, wait, and graze . . . one glass of Rex Goliath Chardonnay and a handful of wheat thins.

 A big ol' bite

Then, I’d repeat the process. Wheat thins – those lightly greasy, nutty-tasting, seemingly healthy crackers that were actually coated in preservatives and teeming with ingredients such as corn syrup and fructose. Yeah, those little seeds in there fooled me, too. 

 Lethal

It was after a few years of the wine and wheat thins practice, that I visited my doctor for an overdue physical. Scolded for my poundage overage, I was encouraged to take brisk walks. The doctor took vials of my blood for analysis. It turned out most of my numbers were good. Except for my thyroid, which was elevated to astronomical levels. I didn’t know the difference between 2 and 10 when it came to thyroid levels. But I’m a quick learner, especially when it comes to my health and how it affects my body.

I’ve read that hypothyroidism is common in women my age, but just because it’s common, doesn’t mean I needed to accept the anomaly or tolerate ill health. And I wanted a holistic cure. After all the crap I had ingested over the years, I was searching for a natural means to control my wacky thyroid levels. Even the local energy healer in my Vermont village was adamant. “Thyroid is not something you can ignore, the hormone must be replaced.”  So wow, even my chakra-balancing spiritual guru said I should take the pill. Nooooo! No way, not me. I’m going to heal myself with diet.

Yeah, right. The diet that messed me up in the first place? And put me at risk to the point where I now required medication to control a part of my endocrine system?  If I refused this medication, ultimately I would die. Supplements, a veggie plate and many glasses of water could not substitute for the thyroid hormone. So I began taking levothyroxine. Yum. And then I tried natural compound, and it worked. My levels lowered. Occasionally my naturopath and I need to tinker with dosage, but I’ve accepted the fact I was out of balance.

How did this imbalance occur in the first place? It was one of my first questions after diagnosis. I hit Google and examined my eating habits. I wanted to blame the environment. I blamed the food industry. Bu it was I who had to take responsibility for my health, after all, it was I who had consumed massive quantities of peanut butter cups laden with soy lecithin and dextrose. Those bottles of wine in our recycling bin were testimony as well. A nice table wine is essential to any household, my friend used to say. But back then, 2 ½ glasses seemed like nothing. Did I really have to eat when I got home each evening? No. And if I did, perhaps I could make wiser choices.  Which leads me to the notion of longevity. I hope I haven’t ruined this possibility for myself.  Like my next-door neighbor, Leo. He’s 97 years old.  He might drink wine now and then. But I’m pretty sure he didn’t sit on his ass at the end of each day and down glassfuls of sweet Chardonnay.  Leo eats food he farms himself. He puts much of it up for the long Vermont winters. Instead of plopping down on a sofa, he cleans up his yard, cans vegetables and skis.

 Practical beauty

The cats and I notice the activity outside our window. Leo cutting back the tomatoes. Leo pruning the squash. Leo pulling the tarp over his plants when frost is predicted, Leo carrying buckets to his compost out back. It has been a long season for Leo. It’s a little late, but maybe not too late for me. If I start right now. 

 Share the wealth

Alcohol Not Required

Recently, I dropped a few pounds. This weight loss seemed rather easy and mysterious as I hadn’t suffered through the usual mayo-less tuna on 40-calorie bread and artificial popsicles. As I mused over the possible reasons why my butt was just a little bit smaller I realized it wasn’t about the food. It was about the alcohol, or lack thereof. I had consciously cut back on my wine consumption, the result, a pant size down. 

 

 One of my favorites: full-bodied, soft on the palate and medium-priced

Other fall-out from the wine hiatus – no more clinking sound when my husband or I emptied the recycling bin. Several years ago, the tinkling sound of pretty green bottles spilling into the plastic trash receptacle was a source of amusement between me and my husband. He’d remark, in jest, of course, that he was married to a lush. Sometimes he’d just shake his head and smile as if it were “cute,” and I’d blush in apology. “It wasn’t all me, really!,” as I’d remind him of the company who visited on Saturday night. Certainly, it was they who had contributed to our musical trash. 

 So many bottles from which to choose!

When I was in my forties, I was married to someone else. This man loved his beer. As a hard-working contractor, I suppose he felt entitled to drink a 12-pack at the end of a long week. When he brought the 12-pack home, I’d fetch each bottle for him. “Can I open it for you, honey?”  I didn’t know the signs of alcoholism. For kindness’ sake, let’s refer to it as “over-drinking.”  He then began bringing home select bottles of wine, just for me. He’d discuss the purchase of these wines with the wine store owner as if he were a sommelier. One bottle came from Santa Barbara, another from Sonoma, and I was intrigued. I’d drink maybe half a bottle and take on a quiet, delightful buzz. Instantly, my ex-husband had his drinking companion for Saturday afternoons. Everyone (except me, obviously) knows that a lot of drinkers love having a drinking buddy. We’d sit on the back deck and talk; I’d deadhead the flowers in my potted plants, we’d contemplate dinner, and he’d work on his 12-pack until usually, one lone bottle was left, like an Old Maid. I’d pick it up and place it on the bottom shelf of the fridge.

Then, we divorced. I packed up my share of the furniture and my  newfound love of Chardonnay and moved to Vermont, where, as I so gleefully discovered, one could buy her wine at the grocery store. No more conspicuous trips to a liquor outlet or state store. I could now purchase my cheap white table wine along with the bread, eggs and cat food. The low price was especially helpful to a newly-single woman. 

 

 Pretty green clinkers

I began working my new job at a local college. Getting into the groove of this job produced a fair amount of stress - so much to learn, so many new people with whom to contend. Nearly every evening after I got home, I’d open the bottle in the fridge and pour myself a glass. I don’t believe I was wholly preoccupied with having this glass of wine, but I drank – more than I ever had in my entire life. I loved the buttery softness, I loved the pretty labels, I enjoyed stocking an extra bottle or two in the pantry; then I began experimenting with better and pricier wines. The entire ritual became an intrinsic part of my days. When I moved in with Charlie a couple of years later, I’d have a glass of wine or two every evening while I waited for him to come home from work. I got home at 5. He didn’t arrive until 6:30. Wine and a handful of Wheat Thins, and then another glass and another handful. And the empty bottles piled up. The clinking no longer sounded like music. Instead, it sounded like the bell Sister Rose rang when it was time to stop playing in the schoolyard.  I’m pretty observant, and after many years of sipping, I understood I needed to slow down. I never over-drank. I never got drunk. But I became aware that I’d created a habit.  I began thinking about my health, my liver, my lymph system, the future of my general health. And I guess I didn’t like that my husband chuckled and shook his head when we dumped the green glass bottles into the trash. Because it wasn’t really funny.

So now, instead of two glasses of wine a day, I drink perhaps 2 or 3 glasses a week. If I wanted a glass of wine tonight, I’d probably have one. It’s strange, though, I don’t feel like it, not one little bit.

Three Poems from a Previous Decade

Hyacinth

It’s all about my mother, really

And the way she moved about the house the

Saturday before, deliberate and pensive

Setting the house ready,

She whisked away winter‘s grime and

Wiped the windows of our souls clean; then

Tossed the used up water on the roots of a

Backyard forsythia

Lenten offerings made in silence

I recall the bulb, its fragrance like a prayer

Leaves firm, pointed toward heaven

A scent not unlike her own

All my springs ever since

 

Otter at the Creek

On the edge of winter I waited

Standing by the water

I heard last year’s leaves

And thought it must be the robin

Rooting for her nest

But a sideways glance told me otherwise

As he, only a few feet away

Groomed himself …

Lithe and leather brown

He was not afraid

And we stayed that moment together

Then the old couple came by, and

I whispered, “Shhhh,

As he slid back into the river

Voice of the Falls

I swing a clogged foot from a wooden bridge

And want to fling it off into the rushing below

But what would I do with only one shoe?

So I rethink my desire

Raising up towards the blue glimpse

The evergreens whisper, “Come closer.”

That message, pure, clear and deep

Resonates my necessary sorrow

Which pulls the weight of an entire universe