an ordinary november day (lyn)

Another gorgeous day.  Pam and I even walk.  I then pop over to Weight Watchers, as I am required to weigh-in every month in order to keep my lifetime status.  It’s been five weeks since I was last there, and though I have been going sporadically to the same meeting for over two years, I forget the starting time and arrive late.  The room is packed.  Lots of new faces but enough familiar ones to feel comfortable.  I weigh-in: 121.6.  And, I have been eating so much.  A nice beginning to a beautiful day.

See an early screening with Robyn,  Almodovar’s The Skin I Live In.  It’s a brilliant but creepy film and we leave exhausted just from the experience of watching.

Perfect weather.  Screenings almost every night.  New plays opening.  Fallen leaves adorning the streets.  Seeing lots of friends.  Wanting to be out more than in.  Fall in New York, the best time of year.

dinner with a former bad boy (lyn)

“When I was in jail,” begins Stephen (not his real name).  I laugh because I don’t know anyone else who can begin a story with that lead-in.  I am having dinner with Stephen.  He is smart, well-educated, age-appropriate, and interesting.  He is also a recovering alcoholic who hasn’t had a drink in 14 months.  He lives without TV’s to keep his mind uncluttered.  He reads books on religion and history; the one he has with him is Rock the Casbah by Robin Wright.  (I’m glad he doesn’t see the book I’m carrying, a fun little mystery called Hush by Kate White).  He lost his license for two years because of more than one DUI.  He remains friends with his wife, with whom he is separated, and with whom he would be happy to return.   A year ago he gave up his mistress of 20 or so years, who was 16 when he met her; he was 44. 

Stephen’s stories are about the person he once was, not the person he now is.  He knows we could never be in a relationship, but I doubt that he’d want that anyway.  He tells me that I am the only person he now “dates” even though we have only had one date before, when I met him for the first time in March.

I’ve chosen the restaurant, Vins et Fleurs, a sweet little place in Soho.  We meet before five, as we plan to see an early screening.  The restaurant is empty except for the wait staff and us.  Stephen is a vegetarian and doesn’t eat fish, so he has an omelet.  I order the halibut in a citrus sauce.  While I listen to Stephen’s extraordinary history, I eat and he talks.  Soon, I’m done eating and he’s barely started.

We both get desserts.  My fruit-based soufflé is impossible to describe, but amazingly good.  Over dinner I learn that Stephen rides a bike in lieu of a car, and that he loves opera, but doesn’t like movies. I don’t like the idea of his riding his bike in the dark.  And, the movie is supposed to be a sad one.  I encourage him not to come.  He eventually agrees.   

I go to the screening alone.  It’s a depressing film (poorly namedTyrannosaur) about angry, violent, alcoholic people.  I’m sure Stephen’s bike ride home was a more pleasant way to end the night.

an unglamorous job (lyn)

Losing weight is exciting; maintaining it is boring.  I mean really, how can you celebrate staying the same?

According to a recent New York Times article, a doctor is quoted as saying, “losing weight is not a neutral event, and that it is no accident that more than 90 percent of people who lose a lot of weight gain it back.”

I’m not sure about this doctor’s statistic of 90%, but still, most would agree that keeping lost weight off is a challenge.

So this is what has helped me.  I:

Weigh myself regularly. 

If I see that I’ve more than 122, I start tracking again, and it doesn’t take long before I’m back to where I want to be.

Keep healthy snacks around. 

Last night I got in at 10.  Having eaten an early dinner to make an early screening, I came home hungry.  I was tempted to go for the sorbet in my fridge, but knew that if I did, when I weighed myself in the morning, the scale would register higher than I like.  I took an apple instead, and this morning I weighed 121.4.  I always keep my house stocked with low fat popcorn, fruit, some vegetables, salad stuff, and fiber one bars.

Don’t keep too many bad foods around

While I do have a big package of a newly-discovered sinful food (Costco’s dark chocolate pomegranates) in my kitchen, I never keep bread (unless it's 100 calories), avocados, regular cheese, sugar-based drinks of any kind, or anything else that is easy to put on but hard to take off.

Don’t eat spontaneously

If I want a big dinner, I’ll eat a small lunch.  If I know I’m going to be eating out, and I don’t want to be restricted in what I order, I eat less the day before and/or after. 

Buy and wear clothes that fit, and toss or give away the older, bigger ones.

I now have no clothes that will fit if I gain more than three pounds. I can’t afford to be one size larger than I am now.

Stay aware

I am never not cognizant of what I’m eating.  I pretty much eat whatever I want, but not without knowledge and awareness of what I am doing.  I think I’ve become a much smarter eater, and in the process, I feel as if I’ve compromised nothing.

I don’t get compliments often about my weight.  I wouldn’t expect to; I have been my current size since May of 2010.  I no long get those big smiles on the rare occasion that I weigh in at a Weight Watchers meeting.  But when I slide into my skinny size 27 jeans, it doesn’t matter at all what anyone else notices.  I know that I am thin.  And whatever it takes, I plan to stay this way.

a day in upsate new york (lyn)

August. 1969.  Vivien and I are holding tickets to Woodstock.  I don’t remember buying them, but somehow Vivien has them.  We talk about hitchhiking to New York, but in the end, we don’t.  Despite the monumental event that Woodstock turns out to be, I’m still not sure I would have enjoyed it.  Too much rain and mud. 

But I did enjoy my trip to Bethel New York today to see the museum that has been built on the magnificent grounds of Max Yasgur’s farm.

I haven’t seen John since March.  On our last date he tried to convince me why we might make a good couple.  The next time I hear from him is when I call him a few weeks ago.  Good that neither of us have expectations.

John picks me up at 10.  It’s a gorgeous autumn day, the first Sunday of November.  This also happens to be the same day as the NYC Marathon.  Streets are closed everywhere.  It takes an hour to get out of the city.

We arrive in Bethel after one.  We get out of the car and John looks at me and says, “Wow.  You really are thin.  I’m used to seeing you in winter clothes.”  He is very sweet.  Then, with masculine insouciance he adds,  “You can be sure that I didn’t lose any weight since the last time I saw you.”  

The grounds are magnificent and we take a few pictures before going inside for a quick lunch of tomato soup and crackers.

The museum is empty.  There are probably as many volunteers working as guests visiting.  The focus of the museum is Woodstock, and the 60’s culture from which it evolved.  There are long and short videos of the era and the festival throughout the museum.  Putting on a pair of headphones, I’m immediately  transported to the time of my youth. 

We stay until 4:30 or so, and then drive over to Monticello for dinner.  I had done some online research and had chosen a steakhouse called The Old Homestead. We arrive to an empty parking lot.

Consistent with the empty parking lot, we are the only people in the restaurant.  “Sundays are slow,” our serious waitress tells us.  We ask her to take a picture and her nervousness at handling a camera is apparent.  “I’m really not good with anything technical,” she tells us.  “That’s, okay, “ John says. “It’s pretty easy.  Just snap here.”  She takes one picture.

We both eat too much of their homemade bread, and split a tuna tartare appetizer (that looks like a giant meatball).  Salad and potato comes with the meal, so we skip the vegetable side.  We each order the 23-ounce rib eye, cut it in half, and take about 12 ounces home.

Another two diners walk in.  The large restaurant is still empty and they seat the new diners at the table directly behind ours.  Soon they are picking up parts of our conversation and incorporating it into theirs.  Odd.  Another couple walks in and they are seated to our immediate left.  By the time we are done drinking our cappuccinos, the six of us are in conversation together. 

Being with John is always easy.  With me, he is uncomplicated, accommodating, well-mannered, and generous.  I am relaxed and comfortable with him.  And each date is like a first.  Still filled with some wonder of what will happen next.  And in John’s case, there is always the question of when next will happen. 

root soup near-disaster (lyn)

I’m shopping in D’Agostino’s when I see a bunch of fresh vegetables and herbs, packaged together, to be used for making a soup.   I already have the 32-ounce Pacific Natural Foods Organic Free Range Chicken Broth Low Sodium.  It sells for $5.99 per box here, but $11.99 for six boxes at Costco, where I bought it.   Plus, it has to be good for you with all those healthy-sounding qualifiers in the name.  Soup is low cal,  cheap, easy to make, and should provide a week of quick lunches.  I decide to make some.

I get home and open my soup-starter package (Robyn later tells me that this is what it's called). Truthfully, I have no idea what half the things in it are.  I easily recognize the stalks of celery, the single carrot, onion, and potato.  There is also some parsley (I think) and another green thing that looks like marijuana but probably isn’t.  But then it gets difficult.   There's a hard item with the consistency of a potato, but it's covered in a pinkish-purplish skin; maybe a parsnip?  And then there's something that could easily be mistaken for a stalk of celery but it's mostly white and more limp;  could this be a leek?

I plan to follow the same method I use for making squash apple soup:  lightly brown everything in a little oil; add the broth, some salt and pepper; cover and let boil for five minutes; then uncover and reduce boil;  simmer awhile, emulsify and serve.

I do everything according to plan, right through cover and boil for five minutes.  I uncover to let the soup simmer, and go to my room to blog.  I get lost in other activities and go back to check on my soup, maybe twenty minutes later.  I enter the kitchen and smell something burning.  I look in my once-nice soup terrine and there are the root vegetables, sitting atop a very black burnt pot-bottom.  All the broth has boiled out.  I forgot the small step of reducing the heat.  While I thought the soup was simmering, it was instead boiling. 

I salvage the root vegetables, transfer them to a bowl, take out another pot, add another 32 ounces of chicken broth, and try a second time.  And again, I forget to reduce the heat.  Only this time, I am gone only about ten minutes.  I reduce the heat, cook some more, emulsify and serve.

Result:  The soup is delicious.  Okay, it only fills three bowls, since so much of the liquid has boiled away.  And it may have been very expensive if I have to replace the burnt pot.  But it is, very very good.

Lesson learned:  It is near-impossible to screw up a soup.

too many good (?) foods (lyn)

I am talking to Zelia today.  She tells me that she is on a diet.  “I need to lose three pounds, and I just can’t seem to do it.”  Zelia, by the way, is a size zero.  But I do understand.  When your clothes are a little tight, you know it's time to lose some weight.

Since getting back from Ithaca, I, too, need to shed three pounds. And it certainly hasn't helped that I had two amazing dinners with Gail this week (one at Bice on Tuesday where I had the duck breast, and one at Chez Josephine on Thursday where I had amish chicken and dessert)  Even Gail’s decision to skip the bread did not rub off on me.  I heartily ate one or two slices at both restaurants.

Today I eat a reasonable lunch, but get hungry mid-afternoon and decide to “taste” some of those Brookside dark chocolate pomegranates that I bought at Costco last week.  I know that ¼ cup is one serving, and one serving is five points.  I take a small handful, less than a serving.  But they are exquisite, and I take another small handful, and then another.  On the bag there is a bold proclamation:  Natural source of flavanol antioxidants.   At least my many points are healthy ones, or so the bag says.  

a loss in appetite (lyn)

My dad is back in the hospital.  He has an infection, although my mom thinks he should be home soon.  This once robust man has had a difficult year.  He was 88 in September, and his age has caught up with him.  In the past year, he has lost his mobility and his appetite. He has become old and frail.

It would be great if you could program yourself to lose your appetite for a few days each week when you are trying to lose weight.  But to lose it completely is a horrible thing.

In 2006, I lost my interest in eating for about four months.  Everything I put in my mouth tasted like sandpaper.  I forced myself to eat, because I knew I needed to.  I remember buying spinach because it was good for me.  I remember eating, but not tasting it.  I remember going out to dinner at Charlie's in Buzzards Bay with Alexander and my parents.  I wanted nothing on their very large and varied menu.  My father got angry and told me I had to order something.  I got a plain hamburger with no bun.  I chewed and swallowed, tasting only texture.  I remember going our for Chinese food with Valerie, Abbey, and Abbey’s mom one summer night in Long island.  I pretended to enjoy the meal.  I believe an appetite for food is closely tied to a hunger for other things.  Losing it severely comprises the rest of life’s joys.  I remember going to a street fair in Connecticut with my friend Julie.  My stomach growled to signal hunger.  I grabbed a slice of pizza and sat on a sidewalk curb to eat it, wondering if I would ever taste life again.

I think of my dad and I feel sad.  He used to love shrimp fra diavolo.  The spicier the better.  And Chinese food was a weekend staple.  A good steak was something he looked forward to, especially smothered in onions and peppers.  A bowl of ice cream, eaten in his chair, in front of the TV while watching a late-night boxing match was a nice finish to his day.   Jewish foods were also a favorite: gefilte fish, lox and bagels, kugel, and brisket.  He preferred the mashed potatoes he made to the ones prepared by my mother; he thought hers were too lumpy.  But he loved my mom’s stuffed veal (who didn’t?).  He drowned his salads in dressing and then liberally seasoned them with pepper. He preferred his salads to be simple:  Iceberg lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes and onions (I don’t think he's ever even tried an avocado).  My father enjoyed his foods.  But not anymore.  Now food is just something he eats to keep himself nourished.  He sleeps a lot more too.  No more late night fights on HBO.  And the cars he read about and loved?  My mom (with his agreement) recently sold his adored Lexus.  He doesn’t drive anymore so one car is really all my parents need.  My dad hasn’t been in his workshop-basement in a very long time.  That used to be one of his favorite places.  It’s where he fixed anything that needed fixing and where he created gorgeous birdhouses that neighbors and friends coveted.

My dad has lost his desire for food, and with it, so much more.