Archive | Food Matters

Don’t Call Me Sweetie

I just realized that today marks my two-year anniversary of quitting sugar and sweeteners of any sort. Sometimes I still drink alcohol–what I call “adult sugar”–and I’ve eased up on restricting white flour. But overall it’s been two years of experiencing my life un-doctored, which has made me fiercer and more motivated to change what needs changing. This is especially useful when your country has been seized by a reality TV madman. I’ve also been overall healthier: I’ve only been sick once, my skin and eyes are clearer, and my energy levels have improved vastly. (Weirdly, my waistline didn’t shrink at all.) The biggest takeaway: Sugar is like nicotine, which I quit at age 30. It doesn’t get you high yet it’s just as addictive as heroin and nearly as lethal in the long run. Next step: quitting gentle, unavailable men….

23rd Street Explosion, Magic Rock Revolver

1986wigstockI was already asleep when news of the explosion hit the wires. Being intuitively conflict-avoidant, a sense of impending doom sent me to Poughkeepsie the day before September 11, 2001; to an Oklahoma campground the week of the 2003 blackout; up the East Williamsburg hill while Hurricane Sandy crashed elsewhere in Brooklyn and Queens. I felt those disturbances in the force anyway, though, and I feel this now. It’s what pulled me awake at 4:45 this morning, early even for me.

In the darkness I made coffee and prayed for the 29 injured by the 23rd street bomb. Then, clad in slippers and the caftan I rarely wear outside the house, I hopped into magic car Minerva and zoomed over the Williamsburg Bridge still lit up against the night sky. (The sun is so lazy this time of year.) As I drove, I wondered at the rush of energy I was feeling. Was it dissociation? Despair? No, I said loudly, and turned on the Beatles’ Revolver, which had been playing in my head since I’d woken up.

Your day breaks, your mind aches
You find that all the words of kindness linger on
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Hermine Looms, the ‘I’ Fades Away

daddy o daddyTemperatures cool, winds pick up. The doves huddle on the fire escape, permakitten creeps closer by my side. Coming up from intuition sessions I’m so wild-eyed and ravenous. Rice goes in the cooker, mushrooms and asparagus get chopped. We roast a chicken Bitman-style: sea-salted, thymed and magic-oiled, stuffed with olives, garlic, lemon, and chili peppers, cast-ironed at high, high heat. Eyebrow cocked, ogle the big sunset (too soon, too soon), then Astaire’s restless gams, Wilder’s Daddy Long Legs. Caron on the satin screen, Hermine on the horizon, summer in the rear-view mirror. Rueful, real: red wine for all.

"All, everything I understand, I understand only because I love."
― Leo Tolstoy