My Little Tub O' Butter

I loved my grandmother.  Deeply.  Both grandmothers, actually, but my Bayonne Bubby, my father’s mother, passed away when I was 10.  My mother’s mother, Nanny, made it all the way to my wedding, walking down the aisle in front of me, beaming in her baby pink 2-piece suit.  Nanny’s the one I’m talking about today. 

Nanny and Pop lived downstairs from us, in the Victorian house that Pop bought back in the 1940’s.  Lots of people in Jersey City lived with extended families in the era when I grew up, the 50’s, when people were coming to this country in droves.  (But Nan & Pop were born in the U.S., a little after 1900).  What I thought was wonderful—having Nanny and Pop downstairs to dote on me—was a burden for my parent’s autonomy.  I could go down the stairs to watch tv with them.  I especially loved watching The Ed Sullivan Show on Sunday nights and yes, I easily remember watching the Beatles on their first performance on that show in 1964.  When Pop wanted to watch Gunsmoke or Perry Mason, I would go back upstairs to play with my Barbie dolls.  

Nan and Pop also had plenty of food available for me to eat, even if I already ate my dinner.   I remember lamb chops, corned beef from Greenspan’s Deli, potato salad, Kosher pickles and sticks of hard butter in the fridge.  Strawberries and sour cream with sugar on top on the table.  Demfleisch on the stove.  Swiss cheese sandwiches on toast with the butter not quite melted and stuck in clumps to the bread for Pop’s late night snacks.  It’s no wonder I grew up with a “food thing.”

My mother and father were average build.  My brother was skinny and truly didn’t like to eat.  I was way too interested in food and mealtime.  Pop was a big man and loved to eat, never, ever leaving a morsel of food on his plate.  He could eat a big dinner, then a bowl of ice cream for dessert.  And then the ubiquitous swiss cheese on toast later on.  He was fed by my grandmother and everyone else.  I was the chubby kid who had to sneak food.  No one wanted me to eat too much and I didn’t understand why at that time.  I became an expert at opening the cookie jar without making a sound.  Finding candy and chips downstairs and being allowed to eat it, when my mother didn’t have these things in the house.  Once eating a second dinner with Nan & Pop and promptly throwing up.  I was so embarrassed hearing my mother on the phone with Nanny downstairs who told mom that I ate dinner downstairs and never told them I ate earlier.  Ugh.  

And my grandmother used to call me her "little tub of butter."  At the time, I found it endearing.  It's now that I think of the Breakstone "tub" of whipped butter, squat and round.  But I know Nan meant it as a special title for just for me.  It was just her way to express her love to me.  

A Matzo that moves through you

I interrupt your regularly scheduled broadcast of Facebook newsfeed to bring you this very important Broccoli-Mama announcement.  I'm putting my dietitian hat on today to tell you of a new food favorite--Manischewitz Kosher for Passover Whole Wheat Matzo.  I'm really impressed with the ingredients (there's just 2: whole wheat flour and water) and the nutritional analysis.  Just 70 calories in the sheet, (the non-kosher-for-Passover variety has more.  go figure), half a gram of fat, no cholesterol, 15 grams of carbs (that word everyone says in a hushed voice these days), a hearty 2 grams of fiber and a pretty nice 3 grams of protein.  It even has a bissel of iron.  Best part though is zero, that's right, zero milligrams of sodium.  And to give it this dietitian's seal of approval, it tastes really good!  For those of us of a certain age, I'd like to borrow the Vita-meata-vegamin girl's line--"It's so tasty too."  I have a full sheet for breakfast with almond butter (unsalted of course) or will have it spread with tuna salad for lunch.  Broccoli Rob likes it with cream cheese and lox, which ups the fat and salt, but that's what he likes.

Watching our saturated fat and sodium is important for our health, helping keep our arteries flowing smoothly and keeping blood pressure controlled.  The fiber is a help to our large intestine, keeping what's in there flowing smoothly as well.  Sufficient fiber has been linked to a lower risk of colon cancer.  And you know the reputation regular matzo has after 8 days of the Passover holiday.

The Manishewitz Matzo Co. of Jersey City

When selecting any Passover item (and I admittedly don't use many Passover foods since I don't adhere to the dietary restrictions for Passover), I always select Manishewitz.  And why Manishewitz? It's the company that was in Jersey City for many years and I want to be loyal to anything Jersey City.  My friend, Ira Rubin, worked at Manishewitz during its heyday and occasionally would bring us samples of Passover goodies and gave me and my kids a tour of the facility, even letting them climb on the mile-high cases of matzo.

So, like the Vita-meata-vegamin girl, the answer to all your problems is in this little bottle (but for poetic license, we'll substitute "little box").  Get some Manishewitz Kosher for Passover whole wheat matzo today. Wink at camera.

 

My Jersey City life

I grew up in Jersey City and I’m proud of it.  Jersey City is home to Ellis Island (and you thought that it was in NYC), so lots of immigrants conveniently came up the hill after their long sailing to start their new life in this country.  Jersey City was teeming with immigrants when I was young.  My maternal grandmother, Ruth (I called her Nanny) was born in Jersey City, as was my mother.  My maternal grandfather grew up there, coming over from New York, and met my grandmother in childhood when they lived in the same apartment building in downtown Jersey City.  My dad was born in the next town, Bayonne, but when they married, my parents settled in Jersey City, in my grandparent’s home, to raise my older brother and me.  Back in the mid-fifties, when I was born, the world, and Jersey City, was a different place than it is today.  It was safe for kids to go outside to play.  My brother was on our street, Harrison Avenue, playing touch football, stoop ball or stick ball and there were loads of kids on the block to play with, starting with my cousin Charlie, who lived downstairs. I didn’t do sports, but outside I was, playing jacks, hopscotch or jump rope.  I had a bike, but my mother wouldn’t let me ride it off the sidewalk and she wouldn’t let me ride it around the corner either, so it was pretty limiting just going from my house to the corner and back by bike.  Barely enough room on the sidewalk to make a u-turn.  Around the corner was the bank, the post office, a little grocery store where we kept a running tab in a composition book, the dry cleaners and the best place of all, Sol’s candy store, which also had ice cream, comic books and small toys.  I was proud when my overprotective mother finally allowed me to do some household errands and let me walk unescorted to these stores.  I had a happy childhood in Jersey City, living upstairs from my doting grandparents and having loads of family and friends in the area.

But the world changed in the 60’s after JFK was assassinated.  There were racial riots, civil unrest from segregation and unsafe streets.  Jersey City, like many urban areas, had white flight, though my family stayed as my family had a business in Jersey City.  My high school, Lincoln, was in a geographically segregated side of town.  And though I had no problems in high school, I was in the minority and in those days, we were taught to stay with our own kind.  But I have good memories of Lincoln High school as well of the Jersey City Jewish Community Center where I made many friends from different schools in Jersey City and Hoboken. 

My parents eventually moved to Bayonne in 1972 and after my grandparents passed away, the house on Harrison Avenue was given to my cousin Charlie.  Charlie and I lost touch 30 years ago when our mothers had a falling out, but I believe when he sold the house in the 1980's, he didn’t get much for it citing the decline of Jersey City.  The house was an old Victorian from the late 1890’s.  Originally a one-family home when my grandfather purchased it in the early ‘40’s, Grandpa had it divided into a 3-family, with my family on the second floor and Mr. & Mrs. Campbell, long-time renters on the third (illegal) floor.  Illegal because it had no stove--the Campbells cooked on a hot plate!   

I visited Harrison Avenue this past summer and viewed the ol’ homestead from the outside.  It’s been updated and it seems to have a basement apartment now too.  (I used to consider the basement a dungeon because it was soooooo cold and scary.  It also had a bulkhead cellar door to get into the basement from the backyard and I'm sure that's been updated).  I’m happy to know the home is in good hands.

my Jersey City childhood home on Harrison Avenue with the green shingles now replaced by vinyl siding

NOWADAYS, Jersey City is the hot place to live, mostly in the Newport, “waterfront” area, but also elsewhere near the PATH train entrances.  I remember the first luxury apartment being built along the waterfront decades ago and thought “Why would anyone want to live near the Holland Tunnel?”  Boy, was I wrong.  With New York City, Brooklyn and Hoboken (a story in itself) being overcrowded and overpriced, Jersey City has become "little Manhattan."  My older daughter, Broccoli Baby and her new husband (now given a cruciferous moniker), Dr. Kale, looked for a rental in Jersey City recently.  Even though I know Jersey City is popular with the young, hip crowd, I was astonished that my kids were brought back to the place of my youth and for that matter, my mother’s youth and my grandparent’s youth.  Though Broccoli Baby and Dr. Kale didn’t settle on anything yet, it’s still pretty cool to know that Jersey City could potentially be the home of my grandchild, keeping our Jersey City heritage going strong.   I'll be brushing up on my jump rope skills!! 

Broccoli-Mama-in-law

Wow, so I haven't blogged in 6 months.  I'm always thinking about topics for the next blog, but somehow get myself all finger-tied (as opposed to tongue-tied) when it comes to putting the ideas stirring in my head on to the keyboard.  Too much thinking and not enough doing.  

My mother-in-law, Helen Wachtel, passed away in September.  She and I were civil to each other, but in a way, we were rivals, both vying for Broccoli Rob's attention.  I always lost that battle.  Helen was a difficult person to begin with and I'm not here to trash her like I used to.  She lived to be 92 and was in fairly good shape until a few weeks prior to her demise.  I can't say she was a happy person, but as an outsider looking in, I didn't think she had it so bad.  But anyway, she once told me of how she left Hitler-occupied Germany when she was 12 or 13 years old and I thought I should let that information go forth.

Helen, born in 1922, grew up with her younger sister, Ellen, in Worms, Germany.    She spoke fondly of her family, especially her grandparents on both sides.  We have some lovely photos of her childhood in Germany and it's a shame no one can name many of the friends and relatives in the pictures anymore.  But my mother-in-law, who grew up Jewish (but not observant), said that one day she was forced to attend a Catholic School.  She was young, but she was aware of the indignities around her.  Her father, who must have been very clever, decided it was time for the family to leave Germany.  This was the early 30's.

As Helen once told me, she and her family lived next door to a Gentile family, a wife, an alcoholic husband and a child.  Helen's mother had befriended the wife in that family and would be especially helpful when the alcoholic husband was, well, alcoholic.  The child of the alcoholic grew up to work in the passport office in Germany.  Voila!  The child didn't forget that Helen's mother was a good friend to her own mom and was able to process all the passports to get the family and one set of grandparents to safety in the US.  (The other grandparents must have already passed away from old age).  

So, my mother-in-law and her immediate family were able to sail to America with all their belongings--furniture, clothes, dishes.  I thought that was pretty amazing, as my own grandparents/great-grandparents, came here from Minsk with the little that they had to their name.  When I first got married 30 years ago, Helen gave me some of the furniture that she sailed with.   She didn't want the items anymore as she wanted new stuff.  I like the old stuff anyway.  And to think of the history that came over on that trip.   

 Look at this old buffet from Germany.  It's a bit scratched up on the bottom (from the vacuum cleaner), but still functional and beautiful.

 These are the dishes my mother-in-law's parents brought with them to the US.  Service for 16, but not all the salad plates survived.  I proudly use this set every Thanksgiving.  Haven't broken a piece yet.

This wooden armoire is still in great shape.  I still have the original skeleton key to open the doors.

So these beautiful old pieces of furniture remain with me, from their start in the days before Hitler-powered Germany.  A lot of history here and, quite frankly, some nice pieces of homesteading that I've put to use.  Thank you, Helen, for these items.  Rest in peace.  

Mother of the Bride, Part I

I'm an MOB, a mother of the bride.  My older daughter, Broccoli Baby, will be getting married later this year.  Small-ish, fancy-ish affair for mostly immediate family and the betrotheds' friends.  Broccoli Baby has nice taste, is a master at party planning and pays attention to detail.  She's making all the wedding arrangements herself and I predict all will be perfect. 

As the MOB, of course I’ll need a new outfit for the affair.  (Broccoli Bob insists on wearing one of his, ahem, better suits, and we're just hoping he gets it altered in time.  He's no fashionisto).  This past weekend, Broccoli Baby came over for the sole intent on shopping with me for my MOB outfit.  I have in mind what I'd like...palazzo pants (back in style, thankfully!), a colorful, flowing jacket and pretty flat shoes.  I also know what I don't want--no spanx, no high heels, no pantyhose, no matronly dress and probably not any dress at all.

Broccoli Baby is fine with my ideas.  She, being the daughter she is, wants me to be comfortable and agrees with my decision to wear nice pants to her Saturday evening affair.  She knows that:         

1. I haven't worn a dress in ages. 
2. I don't do pantyhose.  I consider them tortuous to women without waistlines.  I gave them up a long time ago when it was clear that I wasn't getting a waistline back post-partum.  Being on the short and squat side, pantyhose can only fit around my waist if the legs are about 20" longer than they needs to be.  All that tucking under the toes and cramping the nylon into the shoe is way behind me.  I stand firm on no pantyhose.  Ever.  
3. Haven't worn any footwear with a heel in ages either.  That has naturally happened after years of walking around hospitals and years of comfort in sneakers.  When I first started working as a dietitian, I was able to wear gorgeous peep-toed high heels to work without pain.  Now, I can wear cute flats, but they're only worn for beauty, not comfort.  
4. Spanx.  see #2 regarding tortuous women's apparel.  
5. Oh, and I don't wear sleeveless, so that needs to be added to the "what I know I don't want" category.  Those with thick waistlines often have wriggly upper arms.  There I am.

Broccoli Baby and I go through the entire mall looking for my MOB outfit.  Lots of strapless gowns, plenty of matronly long dresses with sparkly shoulder padded jackets (not me!), loads of too-young-for-me outfits.  But wait.  Sak's has a pair of black palazzo pants with a beautifully designed stripe up the sides.  I try them on.  No exaggeration--they're about 15 inches too long.  And they're (no exaggeration again) $1195.00.  Yup.  1200 bucks for a pair of pants.  (All the clothes in my closet right now don't add up to $1200).  Broccoli Baby and I carefully slip out of the Sak's dressing room before the saleslady returns.  (But at least they fit in a smaller size than I expected.  Now that’s priceless).  

Next to Nordstroms, where Broccoli Baby has arranged a personal shopper for me, and he is waiting, with bottled water, and clothes already hanging in a lavish dressing room based on the “rules” Broccoli Baby phoned in.  What's there but:

1. A sleeveless cocktail dress.  (Can you picture me in this?  What a laugh).  To boot, it’s creased.  The least he could have done was steam those lines out.   
2. The aforementioned matronly dress with a sequined, shoulder-padded jacket.  And to boot, it ties at the waist.  Didn't I already say I didn't have a waist?  
3. A horrible, really horrible, gold jacket with dolman sleeves with a stretched out buttonhole.  

this isn't me, but you get the picture, don't you?

So this poor personal shopper is feeling badly for me.  I tell him that I’d like pants, so he goes back out and brings back, ta-dah, the exact same pair of pants I tried on at Saks.  And the price tag is still $1195.  He brings in a white (sleeveless!!) sparkly top and a black sparkly jacket and they’re obviously not a matching set.  Even though I tell this to him, he insists that they match.  I see Broccoli Baby from the corner of my eye shaking her head “no.’”  See, I’m right.  They don’t match.  But I try them all on anyway, the $1195 pants, the $200 white sleeveless blouse and the $600 mismatched jacket.  Pants are too long, blouse and jacket too baggy.  They don’t fit.  They don’t match.  They’re schlumpy and hideous.  I stand on that little platform in from of the tri-folded mirror and pronounce…”FOR TWO THOUSAND DOLLARS SHOULDN’T I LOOK BETTER THAN THIS.”   Loehmans...come back.   

NAT GLATT

Cute name, huh?  It’s the name of my childhood piano teacher from Jersey City.  Nat Glatt (I had to address him as Mr. Glatt, but when I referred to him otherwise, it always came out as the melodious sounding one-syllable "NatGlatt") came to my house every week to hear my horrible piano playing.  The piano was beautiful however.  A Wurlitzer ‘living room grand’ in the turreted alcove of my grandparent’s apartment on the first floor of the house we shared with them.  The piano was bought in Newark by my grandfather and presented to my mother on her 16^th birthday (1942) in that same apartment.  My mother, to my knowledge, barely played it, but can still play “I love coffee, I love tea” if she’s in the mood. 

Wurlitzer living room grand piano, in of all places, my living room.

I loved that piano but, as most kids of age 10 or so, didn’t want to practice.  I used the excuse that I couldn’t practice because I had Hebrew School right after school, and after that, in the evenings, my grandparents were in the living room watching tv, so how could I practice?  Come to think of it, that’s a pretty good reason.  I guess I could have made more of an effort on the weekends, but nah. 

Nat Glatt as far as I was concerned though, was renown in all the Jewish piano-playing homes in Jersey City for his great knowledge of Broadway show tunes.  I still have the enormous book of ‘show tunes’ piano music that Nat Glatt said was used by weddings bands of the era.  That book I loved!!  Words and music for all the hit Broadway and pop tunes of the 1960’s—‘Blame it on the boss nova’, 'Mame,' 'Sunrise, Sunset,' etc.  It’s the reason I knew all the lyrics to these songs, though all my friends were listening to the Beatles by then.  I still have the book and had put reinforcements on all 470+ pages!!  I certainly had time to lick reinforcements, but didn't find the time to practice the piano.

We only had to pay $10, not the $75 that's printed!!

Nat Glatt's instructions penned in

The best part though--besides the Wurlitzer living room grand piano--and besides the big book of show tunes, was my Aunt Jane singing from the kitchen whenever Nat Glatt or I was playing from the show tune book.  Aunt Jane was my mother’s sister who came back to live with my grandparents after her divorce.  Aunt Jane had a fabulous voice and even studied vocal performance in college (for the one year she was there).  She could have made a living as a singer, but she said she had 'mike fright.'  But boy, could she sing in the kitchen when no one was looking!  I swear she sounded just like Barbra Streisand!  

I think it was Aunt Jane’s accompaniment that got me as far as it did with playing the piano.  I was done with the instrument by age 13, though I'm still a show tune nerd.  My mother presented the piano to me as my college graduation gift, big pink bow and all wrapped around it, and I taught myself a couple of Scott Joplin rags on it right after that.  It had a place of honor in my first home after Broccoli Rob and I got married and it’s still with me, here in the living room of my condo, kinda hidden behind the couch. Years go by without a note being played on it’s very-out-of tune keyboard.   A few weeks ago, after seeing “Saving Mr. Banks, a movie about P.L. Travers and the making of the movie “Mary Poppins,” I came home and immediately opened my 1964 easy piano book to “Spoonful of Sugar” and played.  Those few left-handed chords came back to me natch.  Nat Glatt would be proud.

Just a buck!

REALLY GOING GREEN

Broccoli Rob and I finally got around to having our bedroom painted.  We wanted a nice, soothing color and researched some feng shui-ey websites to get the right shade of calmness and serenity, appropriate for sleep.  Normally, I'm pretty color-challenged.  I like bold, bright colors, whether they're in fashion or not.  Give me primary colors and keep the pastels.  My kitchen is orange.  My dining room is red (already red when we bought the place, and I think the red walls solidified the deal).  My kids may say the colors I like can even be obnoxiously loud, but I like 'em.  Even my personal trainer had to look me up and down in disbelief because I matched my hot pink workout gloves with the same color sneakers.

But trying to bring in a well-liked color into a peaceable-to-be bedroom can be a challenge, especially because Broccoli Rob and I have very different tastes.  Add to that, Broccoli Rob's devotion to spirituality and I was afraid I was going to say "just make the walls white" to the painter if I got frustrated if we couldn’t agree on a color.  So we go to youtube to check out bedroom feng shui colors and find that yellows are too bright and energizing, oranges and reds almost illegal in the bedroom with suggestions toward earth tones of greens, browns and beige the most promising of boudoir colors.   But beige walls are like white walls.  BORING.  And of course an interior brown color is only good if you're a hibernating bear.

So it comes down to green.  But my den is a beautiful sage green and I don't want to rival that color.  Bright greens are, well, too bright for sleeping, but we couldn’t agree on the gazillion of other greens on the large color wheel.  We finally pick a green color, probably because we both loved the name...'feel the energy'...and the painter, who has obviously not had work recently said he will come to paint the next morning.  Didn't give us much chance to stew about this. 

The painter and his assistant come in the morning and I run off to work with the promise that the bedroom will be finished at the end of the day.  My younger daughter (I'm now going to call her Broccoli Bubelah) is the first one home.  She sends me a text that reads "saw the room--it's bright."  I start to get a little nervous since this sounds like it’s not the pretty green I selected.  Did I make a color mistake?  Should I have gone to Home Depot and bought a pint of the "feel the energy" green paint and slapped a little on the wall in advance so we could have contemplated it?  Should I not have been so eager to help the painter’s finances by agreeing to the quick booking?    Should I not insist that everything in my life has to somehow be related to green vegetables?   I then call the painter and ask him how it looks.  He said "it's neon."  When he hears the hesitation in my voice, he becomes sympathic and says that he can paint it another color 'at cost' on another day.  Okay, now I'm plotzing.  I wait 3 years to finally call the painter and I schedule everything right away and then question my color choice?  Was I going to come home to a bedroom the shade of a sharpie green highlighter?

But when I get home, I walk into the bedroom and immediately love the color.  Yes, a little bright, but just that kind of bold color that I love.  Broccoli Rob likes it too, so it stays.  And I’m sleeping so well in this room, so I’d like to attribute this to the new color.  Broccoli Baby was consulted for accents and accessories as this is her specialty and she’s under orders not to make any comment about the new green color.  She agrees and all is well.  Broccoli Rob thought the red curtains and red linens that were in the room previously could stay, so now I see he’s much more color challenged than I am.  I’ll be taking Broccoli Baby’s advice and getting beige and brown items to go in our new room!

What's in your closet?

This isn't going to be a post on gay rights.  I'm all for that now, after a few decades of being confused about it all.  Hey, growing up in a very conservative, very traditional mid-century household will make you confused.  But, I've come to embrace equality in marriage.  No, this blog is really about the stuff in my closet.

Broccoli Rob and I recently got back from a trip to Florida, home of the 55-and-over active retirement communities.  Though we're not ready to make any decisions about moving yet, I have in my mind that I'D LIKE TO RETIRE at a relatively early age--62.  Though when we 'crunch the numbers," it really seems unlikely that I can manage this financially, unless I'd like to consider a used trailer home to live out my retirement years.  

But the trip got Broccoli Rob and I thinking.  Of course, he's thinking that the trailer from "Deliverance" is just fine and I'm thinking of a cutely decorated new condo and planning each retirement day with fun things to do.  So we start to think if we should downsize now.  Right now, we're in an adorable condo with lots of stuff in it.  And I'm the type of person who always gets rid of 'stuff.'  Just ask my kids.  "Hey mom, where's my so-and-so?"  "Went to the thrift shop a while ago."  "Figures."  So despite all my round-ups for the thrift shop, there's still a lot of stuff.  

But this morning, I open my big basement closet to start considering clearing out the clutter, and I glance at the packed shelves and racks, and then close the door.  I just wouldn't know where to start.  There's stuff there that I've saved forever and it's starting to hit me, what am I saving this for?  And the next question is, "do I cart this unpacked stuff to the next house, I mean trailer."

I have EVERY Playbill from all the Broadway shows I've ever seen, going back to my first show in 1960-ish.  ("My Fair Lady").  Loads of boxes with Playbills.  I once tried selling some on EBay, but there's really not a market for these.  It's just personal ephemera, useless to anyone else and thrown away by most.  (Sidebar:  I once sold a program on EBay from an early 1970's performance by Bette Midler at the Capitol Theater in Passaic, NJ, and got 20 bucks!)  But I can't- no make that don't- want to get rid of my Playbills.  I've thought of using the covers to wallpaper a basement wall, but then my 50 years of Broadway memories will be in someone else's home if we move.  If they were easily available and organized, I'd love to peruse through them, reminding myself that I saw Bette Midler before she was famous, as one of Tevya's daughters in "Fiddler on the Roof."  But they're not organized and not perused.

Other stuff in that closet too--loads of extra yarn, thousands of family photos, several photo albums I made before I became a wife/mother/dietitian, the kids school supplies (they're now all grown up), prom dresses (kids, not mine, I wasn't asked to the prom, fodder for another blogpost), my mother-in-law's old kitchen stuff and a HUGE piece of framed artwork that my mother-in-law gave to my husband when she downsized and moved to a nursing home.  The picture is a big triangular splash of different colors and I never liked it when it hung in her immaculately decorated condo when she lived there.  I remember one of her friends and I were studying that particular piece of artwork in her apartment and he said that it looked like a vagina to him.  Since that day, I can't look at the picture without wincing.  So that's in my closet too, big and vagina-ey, reminding me that my mother-in-law and I never really had a relationship anyway so why would I want to feature this framed monstrosity in my cute red living room?

So, the closet door is closed for the time being.  Stuff in there I just can't part with and a big picture that Broccoli Rob hopes I'll change my opinion of and hang up in our home.  And it all gets me to think about this possible move to warmer climate.  

                                        

Though warmer is better to these aging bones, especially on this cloudy, chilly day, moving out of this area will take me far from The Great White Way, and now I'm thinking I don't want to be so far.  And mazel tov to the state of NJ for allowing marriage to those whom you love.  Oy, what my grandparents would be thinking.

Having my frozen cake and eating it too. Big time.

I will always have a food obsession.  Weight Watchers notwithstanding, I still have problems with overeating sometimes, and out of the blue, can give in to my addiction for sweets.  Actually, it’s more than just ‘giving in’—it’s an all-out matter of can’t stopping.  My years as a dietitian and my years (decades actually) as a Weight Watcher member have not cured me.  I used to think I had this problem solved, but I have discovered that it will never truly go away. 

Backtrack a few weeks ago.  Our 2 daughters gave Broccoli Bob and me a surprise 30^th wedding anniversary party.  We had friends and family there, grey and pink personalized M&M favors, and lots of especially-ordered-for-me healthy food for the luncheon.  And the requisite wedding cake, complete with the original bride and groom topper that my mother had saved all these years for just an occasion like this.  Let me elaborate on this cake.  Bottom layer is chocolate cake with a mousse filling.  Top layer is vanilla cake with pudding.  All wrapped in an immaculate white frosting with a pink and grey ribbon around each circumference.  Gorgeous.

The cake was big!  Hey, cake leftovers are always welcome.  As this “bride” was cutting the cake for the party guests, I made the serving sizes Jewish-style generous.  Not only did I wish to share my joy, but I wanted as much of this cake to disappear so I wouldn’t have to think about it later.  Even while slicing the cake, I knew I was going to have a problem with the leftovers.

Party over.  Cleaned up and packed up all the remaining sandwiches, salads…and a lot of cake.  Broccoli Bob divided the cake into 3 large, lidded Tupperware containers and put them in our freezer.  And later that night, he takes out the cake from the freezer and leaves it on the counter for a truly unnecessary snack.  But who can wait until it defrosts?  Notthebroccolimama (younger daughter) and I start to eat the cake frozen and Broccoli Bob joins in.  OMG.  Frosting is now crunchy.  Cake is roll-and-then-melt-in-your-mouth deliciousness.  And those mousse and pudding fillings?  Fuhgettaboutit.  Forkful after forkful, 3 of us work on this cake proclaiming our pleasure.  But the problem isn’t in the eating of the frozen cake.  The problem, like with many foods, good or bad, is in not stopping.  And here’s where my addiction, which I had so had hoped to have conquered by now, bubbles up like champagne for the anonymous alcoholic.

So here I am, dietitian-not-so-extraordinaire, Weight Watcher-with-some-success, reader of loads of books about our relationships with food, and I can’t stop eating the frozen cake.  The addiction comes back with a vengeance to fill my mouth and soul with sugar.  Mentally and physically incapable of stopping that sweetness insanity.  Eating until I feel sick.  Bringing me back 40 years and 40 pounds. 

And the next day, there is still more cake left in the freezer.  I toss out the rest of the vanilla cake into the trash in one solid heap.  Happy it’s gone and is no longer a burden for me to deal with.  But Broccoli Bob and Notthebroccolimama are angry that I threw it out.  They just don’t understand.  They don’t feel out of control in the cake’s presence.  But I remind them that there’s still the round chocolate cake in another square Tupperware in the freezer.  A puzzle in itself.  It comes out again a few nights later when I’m no longer feeling sick from the previous sugar overdose.  The 3 of us sit at the kitchen table again and tackle that frozen cake enthusiastically, and fortunately, less guiltily.  Reassembling the cake in my mind, I fit the calories into my points system, into my diet, into my life.  The cake is here and I need to be comfortable with letting it live in my home.  It was bought for a celebration and will get the respect it deserves.  At the age of nearly 60, it’s time to admit the sugar/cake addiction will always be here.  I’ll just eat more of the good stuff on all the other days.  And those wonderful daughters of mine who gave us this beautiful celebration, well, that is what life is truly about.

Snail Mail Woes

Some people are clutterers.  I’m a de-clutterer.

Every day, I walk down to my mailbox and bring in a pack of letters and catalogs.  Just about everything is nonsense since Broccoli Rob and I pay most of our bills online.  I’d estimate 90-95% of my mail is junk mail.  I open all the envelopes and toss out anything with my name on it.  I also toss the back pages of the catalogs that has my name on it.  The rest of the catalog and all the envelopes and papers without names gets put into the paper recycling bin in the garage.  Hauled out to the curb every other Monday for the recycling delivery.  Isn’t this a waste of time for the US mail service, me and the recycling workers?  Why do I get more mail than is necessary?  I seldom buy anything from a catalog and I don't trust the scruples of companies that do direct mailings, but I seem to be on more mailing lists than I should.

But I've found that I can very easily cancel these unwanted mailings and you can all do the same.  (Maybe the postal service will take notice!)  I did it for my mother as she once sent a check to an animal rescue charity and then started getting dozens of similar requests.  Look at the mailing—you’ll find a toll-free phone number on there somewhere.  Call them during regular business hours.  You may have to go thru a prompt, but not for long, as ‘customer service’ is typically high up on the prompt-ladder.  Someone always answers the phone--it’s not done by messaging.  Just tell them you want to remove your name from the mailing list.  That's it.  They're very happy to help you.  I’ve done’ this at least 30 times and every discussion is quick and polite.  No one asks why you want to remove yourself from the list.  They may say it takes 30 days as they may be ahead with their next mailing, but you’ll stop getting their mailings.

Just today, on my lunch hour, I called:

Full Beauty- They sent me a catalog for bras for full size women.  I never bought anything from them before but they obviously got my contact info when I purchased a plus size bathing suit online.  Big mistake-pun intended.  And BTW, I'm no longer a plus-size.

NY Philharmonic-  Never went there, but maybe one day I’d like to be supportive of this.  They probably got my contact info when I was a subscriber to the Roundabout Theater Company a few years ago.

Essex County College Continuing Education- Never went there and have no plans to.  Years ago, I took a few courses at another local adult ed school and recently took a meditation class under the auspices of the Montclair Adult School, so either of those places gave out my name.  (It's like Six Degrees of Separation).

Pottery Barn Kids- My kids are grown and I don’t yet have grandkids.  Why did this company send me a catalog?  I'll tell ya'.  I recently bought a gift for my college roommate’s new grandson, getting the gift through the Pottery Barn Kids registry online.  A one-time purchase and they put me on their mailing list.  What nerve.  But I'm off the mailing list now.

Moving Comfort- they make great sports apparel and I bought something years ago and then returned it.  But they kept me on their mailing list.  Until today!  hah!

So, take the time to call these places and get off the mailing list.  Stop wasting paper, stop tossing these papers in the trash and then bulking up the trash.  Stop the excess from the recycling bin.  And certainly stop paying those extraordinarily high wages of the US Postal Workers who are very happy to brings these catalogs and mailers to your mailbox.  Take a look at your incoming snail mail.  Can't we get by with less?

Alcohol. Feh.

Who here knows that alcohol is not good for you?  Raise your hands.  Right.  All of you.  And if anyone out there doesn’t raise their hand, you’re in denial.

Alcohol is a known bad boy (and I use that gender intentionally).  It’s a drug, though legal IF you’re over 21, IF you’re responsible, IF you maintain control.  But the problem with alcoholic beverages are the IFs.  Those under (and over) 21 want to indulge.  Too many people drink and then drive, putting themselves, and innocent people in danger.  And what I see is that people want more than one serving of the elixir.  What’s the big kick in alcohol anyway?  Relaxation?  Take a nap or meditate instead.  It lowers your inhibitions?  Yup.  Who needs that?  It tastes good?  Not to me.  Tell me what else you think alcohol is so good for.  You can’t.

Alcohol is addictive, wreaks havoc with your liver, and is known to be a risk factor for developing certain cancers, including breast cancer.  I have seen head and neck cancers attributed to alcohol (and smoking) abuse and they're not pretty.  Actually, they’re quite ugly and debilitating.   Think facial surgery and swallowing impairments.  I have seen alcohol-induced pancreatitis and  cirrhosis.  And remember, I’m just the dietitian.  A doctor could tell you much more—car accidents, alcohol intoxication in teenagers, injury from falls from alcoholic stupor.   But I've also listened to sick patients tell me they don't get help at home because someone in their family is too focused on their own drinking.  This is an especially sad predicament.  I admit that these are the extreme cases of alcohol abuse.  But I ask again, why do you want to even drink the stuff?

Alcohol has  no nutritional benefit--no vitamins, no minerals, no protein.  you can check this out on this  government website.  As a matter of fact, use the site to look up the nutritional data of just about any food and fluid.

So alcohol has no good stuff in it.  Even a whopper has protein and some iron.  As they say, pick your poison.

I’m going to get a little personal here.  Do I drink?  Hardly.  I have never liked the taste of alcohol, finding it bitter and offensive.  I will occasionally have a sweet drink that doesn't taste like alcohol, like a cosmo (mainly because it’s pink) or a margarita (on the off chance that I’m not counting calories that day).  I will have a drink at a wedding, bar mitzvah, something like that.  Will stop at one.  I absolutely hate the taste of wine or beer, can’t even stand the smell.  The only alcohol I have in the house is Broccoli Rob’s cheap wine which he mixes with (get this!) diet sierra mist and diet iced tea nightly for his ‘cocktail.’  I won’t buy the wine—he has to do that himself as he knows I’m against him even drinking this small amount.  I haven’t kept hard liquor in the house in at least 10 years as I didn’t want the stuff in the house to entice the kids and their friends.  

But have I abused alcohol? (Here’s the personal part).  Yes.  When I was in college, the legal age to drink alcohol then was 18, and we had a pub on campus.  My roommate was the bartender, her boyfriend was the pub manager.  I could drink for free!  And I did, even though I didn’t like the taste of the beer or the smell of the pub itself.  And I got smashing drunk to fit in or to flirt, or both.  The last time I got drunk was right after college, New Years Eve, turning into 1976.  A boy I liked came to the party with his (previously unbeknownst to me) girlfriend.  I felt so sorry for myself, drank to excess and at midnight, was barfing into the toilet.  I have proudly never repeated this incident as that night was enough embarrassment for my lifetime.  

I know some of you will say "but there's nothing wrong with having one drink to socialize."  You'll have a hard time to convince me of such, since I consider alcohol a controlled dangerous substance!   Why bother with something that isnt nutritious?  Maybe you think I live in the Prohibition Days.  Heck, there's a reason why alcohol was outlawed.  Call me the president of the sobriety club, but this is my blog and my goal is to say what I want to say.  Especially with our health in mind.  You can always say your part as well.  But I'm forever staying on this side of caution.

Next time you want to meet a friend or a new date, go for a scenic walk.  A cafe for appetizers.  A roller coaster ride.  Think of something else than "let's meet at a bar."  Re-think your reasons for drinking alcohol and try to find safer venues.  And for that matter, also stay away from Burger King.

I Yam Who I Yam

At age 59, I've been questioning my career choice.  Granted, I've been questioning my role as a dietitian for about 20 years.  I gave it up for 7 months back in 2005 to pursue a stay-at-home role as an eBay seller, but the lack of a steady paycheck plus the lack of health insurance brought me back to my senses.  I had also gotten friendly with another eBay seller whom I chatted with often on the post office line.  I remember telling him that I had been a dietitian before the eBay thing and he told me to stop reinventing myself and go back to the field that I was trained.  I think I did that the following day because he made so much sense at the time.

But, here I am again, trying to decide if becoming a dietitian was right for me.  When I applied to college back in 1970, I wasn't a free spirit or an out-of-the-box thinker.  Women, for the most part in those days, went to school to be a teacher or a nurse.  No blame on anyone but myself, but I didn't have any guidance when it came to considering career choices, so I applied for a major in elementary education.  Ah, if I had truly pursued that career in education, I could have been retired by now, with a pension and health benefits to boot.  Instead, after working in healthcare on and off for the past 32 years, I won't retire with those great benefits.  Of course, I'll have my 401K but I will need to pay for my own medical coverage.  (A little ironic for working in a hospital all these years).  Maybe that's what has gotten me to think about this profession.

And when I reflect about my career in this field (which admittedly, is not a smart thing to do in the first place), I get a little sour about the benefits I am receiving right now.  Back in 1981, when I got my first job in the field (yes, if you do the math, it shows that I took an extraordinary amount of time to get my credentials), I received 20 days vacation, 12 sick days, 2 personal days and 9 holidays.  Admittedly, I earned $6.01/hour and had to work alternate weekends, but the hospital sweetened the pot by giving us full medical coverage for our family with no out-of-pocket cost to us.  And we were allowed to utilize the hospital pharmacy to fill prescriptions for no cost as well.  Boy, have times changed.  I know that times are tough, and yes, yes, yes, I've been reminded that I should be grateful to have a job, BUT today I am earning exactly what I earned in 2008.  No increases.  And I have much less paid time off.  Bummer.  So I've gone backward.  Now you understand why I've been reflective.  Oh, and the days are gone when there would be money toward continuing education and conferences.  It's zero now.  At one time, many moons ago, the hospital paid for the entire nutrition staff to go to the dietetics convention in New Orleans!

I made sure my children didn't become dietitians.  And I now tell people who are considering that career to hop onto a different train.  The best (non-doctor) careers in healthcare nowadays are speech pathology, physical therapy or occupational therapy.  Those positions pay good money and have some clout.  Granted, getting into a PT program is not easy, but once you're qualified, you can get third-party reimbursement for your services and you can even write physical therapy orders.  Many hospital dietitians can't even write an order for Ensure, and that's an over-the-counter supplement intended for weight gain.  And to be a speech therapist or occupational therapist requires a Masters degree, so be prepared to put in your time.  But you'll get a payback.

I do want to make it clear that the job I have now is a good one.  I enjoy working in the outpatient setting and especially enjoy working with cancer patients.  I find them to be pleasant and hopeful, which creates a nice atmosphere.  Plus, I have a beautiful office and work with a fine, compassionate group of people.  It's just the money thing.  I sometimes just feel like I should have done something else.  But hey, it's too late to make any changes.

My kids have good jobs and I'm thankful.  One has a degree in theater management and one has a degree in education.  One of them makes more money than I do.  The other is pretty close.  So I guess I should stop the bitchin' and remember that my assorted jobs as a dietitian has helped pay for our children to go to college.  And working as a dietitian "afforded" me the opportunity to be a stay-at-home mom for a while (insert my kids groaning right here).  So, I'm feeling better now and want to thank you for letting me write down my thoughts and then let me come back to my senses.  I'll go to work a better dietitian tomorrow!!

School Lunch Program + School Breakfast Program = Obesity

It was a while ago, but there was a big uproar nationally about the changes to the school lunch programs.  Something about smaller portions, higher cost and, (heaven forbid), more vegetables.  No one liked these changes.  There was a local boycott in the Parsippany, NJ schools, though I never did hear about that outcome.  But it brought me to question the role of the school lunch and breakfast programs.

I can understand the point of reduced cost lunches to those who are TRULY needy and certainly there needs to be a cafeteria providing food to all students and staff who would like the option.  But I feel there's a tremendous waste of money and resources here.  Why can't we make school cafeterias privatized and let it be for profit to take the burden off the taxpayer?  Why do I have to foot the bill to feed someone else's children?  People go out for lunch all the time and pay for their lunch, don't they?  They should do the same in school.   Especially now when everyone just laughs at the school lunch options.  (Side bar here:  I've spent a lifetime listening to complaints about hospital meals, airline meals, school meals.  So maybe we can make the first change with the school meals).

First, let's talk about providing free breakfast to students.  Why in heaven's name is any child leaving the house without eating breakfast?  Aren't parents/caregivers/older siblings there to assure small children are getting something to eat before they leave for school?  Yogurt, cold (low sugar) cereal with milk, some toast with peanut butter.  Why is this so hard?  There's no cooking involved.  You just need to have the right ingredients in the house.   Get up a few minutes earlier to take care of "the most important meal of the day."  That goes for the adults AND the kids.  If the child is old enough to prepare something for themselves, then get with the program.   Just Do It!  I see plenty of people in line to get Egg McCrappiness so people have a buck or so for their own breakfast.  And to boot, kids are fatter than ever and some of this obesity is being blamed on the documented junky food that kids are eating for breakfast and lunch at school.  School cafeteria managers complain that kids don't eat the good food--eggs and oatmeal for breakfast, salad and vegetables for lunch--so they are forced to sell what the kids want.  And what the kids want are donuts, bacon, pastries, french fries and such.  Hence, obesity.

Secondly, why are we forcing the school lunch program to provide milk?  I know it helps keep the cost down if you get milk with your meal, but it's a well documented fact that most of the milk is tossed out.   I don't drink milk.  Neither do my kids or my husband.  For that matter, neither does my brother, sister-in-law, etc.  So why are we paying for the milk in school?  It's being pushed from the US Department of Agriculture as a food commodity and I guess it started being pushed because it has calcium.  (I even remember the small cartons of milk when I went to grade school--I think it was 7 cents.  There was no option to refuse.  We just didn't opt-out in 1967.  I took the milk but I never drank it).  But let's get back to the calcium.  We know that there are other foods we can get calcium from.  Kids are certainly eating enough cheese to get their calcium, but we can get calcium from broccoli, kale, (reminder:  eat these) even calcium-fortified orange juice.  So the milk is a waste.  Get rid of it.  (There's also the issue of the majority of the corn and grain farmed in this country to feed cattle and the cattle using our natural resources.  And I'm still trying to understand what a carbon footprint is).

There's also a suggestion over whether low-fat chocolate milk should be a substitute for the "white" milk in the schools.  Now that stuff really goes off the shelf--the kids love it.  But it has additional calories from sugar and is another cause of the obesity epidemic.

I think I'll stop raving here and provide you with what I think we should have.  Home Economics.  That's right.  I think the good old home ec classes should be reinstated.  Teach people how to cook, teach them how to shop wisely and cook healthfully.  Teach people what they should eat to reduce their risk of obesity, diabetes, cancer and other illnesses.  That's what dietitians should be doing.  There would be less obesity if people could make their own breakfast and pack their own lunches.  Let's get with THAT Program!

Hair Raising Experience

I'm disturbed about the price of a haircut.  For my latest haircut, I paid $60 plus a $12 tip.  For $72, I should be happy with the results, but as usual, I'm not.  Allow me to backtrack.

Up until about 3 years ago, I used the same hair stylist at the same salon every month, without fail, with very good results.  It was relatively inexpensive for a trendy salon, about $40 plus tip.  The beautician was a young gal with pinkish hair and we got to know each other very well.  I loved seeing her and hearing about her single-lifestyle and the reflection in the mirror was of 2 rather smiling people.  And then what happens?  I get an email from the salon that Amanda is no longer employed there.  I try connecting with Amanda through phone and facebook, but with no luck.  She and my happy haircuts are no longer.

I've run through a very long string of hairdressers since, some with recommendations, some  just because they're cheap and/or local.  I've paid premium moolah (up to $80, pleased don't tell Broccoli Rob) because the salon was supposedly some feng shui place, but discover that the person cutting my hair is actually just an apprentice who needs experience.  I don't return.  Other places have similar situations, but one thing is for sure, no one ever cut my hair like Amanda.  I have short hair that I like to keep spiky, but don't want to put much bother into styling it in the morning.  I think it should be easy to get the right haircut but it's not.  And to boot, I'm somehow paying for privilege without getting any reward.

Which brings me to the question.  Why are we paying so much money for a haircut?  (I take poetic license with the "we").  To go to beautician school, you don't need a college degree.  Okay, I for one would never wash someone else's hair and I don't trust myself with scissors or razor blades.  But for heaven's sake, how much time does it take to get a beautician's license?  I could look that up, but I'm pretty sure it's 2 years or less.  And then you work at a hair salon, starting with sweeping up the floor and washing hair and move up.  So, to put things into perspective, I am paying about triple my hourly wage to someone with very little education and whose said education cost, I don't know, about 5% about what I just spent on my daughter's college education.  I'm not happy about this and now that I think about it, I'm not a huge fan of giving tips after already paying a significant amount for dinner, haircut, manicure and other stuff.  But I'll keep those thoughts under safe keeping for another chapter.

So I guess it all comes down to value.  I have just an okay haircut, but one that I don't think is worth $72.  I would expect that a more expensive haircut would give me the haircut that I'm pleased with but #1) I don't want to pay more and #2) I've given this a try without success.  My daughter with the expensive education is presently unemployed despite having scholastic achievements.  I have a reasonable education with modest compensation, certainly nowhere near the exalted hairdresser.  All I can say is...Mothers:  let your children grow up to be beauticians.  And Amanda, if you're out there, call me!