Food, Glorious Food

My penance for the mean Halloween trick I played on Dr. Lisa in last week’s column was a day on the food-free plan. But that’s okay. Fasting all day Sunday is a sure-fire cure for dreading Monday. I was like a little kid the night before Christmas, waiting for morning to come.

Although this was never intended to be a food column, I’ve had enough requests for recipes that I decided to share just a few. I’m finding so many interesting vegan, gluten-free recipes on-line and in my new cookbook, Forks Over Knives, there aren’t enough meals in a day to try them all. If you want to start eating healthier but you’re not ready to take the whole plunge, there are little things you can do to provide nutrition-packed treats for yourself and your family.

Here are a few things for awesome snacking. I didn’t invent any of these, but I have modified them all slightly.

Banana Oat Bars

2 cups quick-cooking rolled oats (not instant)

1/2 cup shredded coconut

1/2 cup raisins or chopped dates

1/4 cup chopped walnuts

2 large ripe bananas, mashed

3/4 cup finely chopped apple (or unsweetened applesauce)

1 tsp. cinnamon

Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Mix all the ingredients in a large bowl until well combined. Press into a 9-by-9-inch baking pan and bake for 30 minutes. Cool on a wire rack. When cool, cut into squares or bars. Store in fridge. These freeze well.

Hummus Dip

1 ½ cups canned garbanzo beans (chick peas), drained and rinsed

1/3 cup sesame paste (also called tahini, it’s by the peanut butter in the store)

1 tsp. cumin

1 Tbsp. minced garlic (2-3 cloves)

Juice of one fresh lime (1/3 cup)

2 Tbsp. water

Mix all in a food processor or blender until smooth. I use a little Star Frit chopper, which works great if you like yours on the chunky side. Use for dipping fresh veggies or unsalted tortilla chips, or as an on-the-side salad dressing.

Golden Granola

5 cups large-flake oatmeal

½ cup raw cashews, halved

½ cup whole almonds

½ cup sliced dried apricots

½ cup banana chips

1/3 cup shredded, unsweetened coconut

¼ cup unsalted sunflower seeds

¼ cup unsalted pumpkin seeds

½ cup raisins

1/3 cup liquid honey

½ cup unsweetened applesauce

Toss together first 8 ingredients in large bowl. Stir together honey and applesauce; pour over oat mixture and toss. Spread on two baking sheets. Bake at 325 for 15 minutes. Stir in raisins, bake another 15 minutes. Cool. Store in airtight container.

Spinach/Grape Salad

Cut about 10 seedless grapes in half. Mix together with two generous tablespoons of unsweetened applesauce. Spread over a bed of fresh spinach. Sprinkle with sliced almonds. Delish!

Green Smoothies

Green Smoothies: 1000 times better than they look!

Your basic smoothie is to throw two handfuls of fresh spinach, a cup of cold water, and one frozen banana into the blender. Blend on high until smooth. It’s like getting an extra salad into your body while enjoying a nice drink (you only taste the banana). Once you’ve mastered the basic smoothie, experiment with different fruits. So good.

Taco Seasoning

1 tablespoon chili powder

1/4 teaspoon garlic powder

1/4 teaspoon onion powder

1/4 teaspoon crushed red pepper flakes

1/4 teaspoon dried oregano

1/2 teaspoon paprika

1 1/2 teaspoons ground cumin

1 teaspoon black pepper

Mix all and store in an airtight container.

Hot Bean Dip

1 can refried beans (check the label. Co-op brand lists only beans, water, and salt under ingredients. You don’t want all that other stuff.)

2 Tbsp. taco seasoning (above)

Mix together and heat in microwave for 2-3 minutes. Lovely with unsalted tortilla chips.

Guacamole:

Peel one avocado and mash it with a fork. Add one minced garlic clove and a squeeze of lime juice. Eat with unsalted tortilla chips. Serves one. Best. Snack. Ever!

Naturopathic Tricks and Treats

It’s not the least bit spooky.

People ask what my therapy at Dr. Lisa Graham’s Naturopathic centre entrails—I mean, entails— and I’m here to reassure you it’s all quite normal. Just random strangers running around barefoot in blue hospital gowns or white bathrobes. Folks sweating together, not to the oldies, but in the 180 degree sauna to cook their germs. Patients lying around in beds with wet towels on their torsos to fend off evil. Acupuncture to encourage the exercising of vocal chords. Electrical stimulation to ward off aliens. Soft spa music, accompanied by the soothing howl of hungry wolves and the unmistakable but comforting grunt of constipated rhinos. Routine stuff like that. 

Even Dr. Lisa’s homeopathic remedies are conventional. Wretch weed for digestive disorders, dogbane for consumption, dried beetles for energy, mud dauber’s nests and lizard eggs for fertility. Not a drop of snake oil to be found.

And Dr. Lisa knows what she’s doing, believe me. First, she gets her vapours fusilatin.’ Then she gets her fumigatin’ fire going with a little skunkweed and tosses her “puttin’ down” powders into the air. Then she clips your toenails and snips a bit of your hair, and buries it under a cottonwood tree by the light of a full moon. Nothing weird.

And she truly cares. If you try to get out of bed before your time is up, she throws her boots at your head and shouts, “Don’t you know you’re at death’s door? That’s why I’m doctorin’ you, ya dern fool. Now git back into that bed!”

You think I’m making this up, but I’m not. I got most of it from an episode of The Beverly Hillbillies, where Granny Clampett is out to cure an ailing Jed, whom she has diagnosed with a deadly case of The Misery. But it’s my way of playing a Halloween trick on Lisa, since I’m pretty sure she won’t be allowing me any candy. 

Especially after she reads this.

The truth? While I adore Granny Clampett, even Jed’s double barreled shotgun couldn’t coerce me into submitting myself to her mountain medicine. So what keeps me going back to Dr. Lisa?

I admit, it’s a bit stranger than what we’re used to. Yes, it’s time consuming going for treatments twice a week and using her sauna on the days in between. Yes, the new way of eating, shopping, and cooking seems like a huge burden at first. But, like one of my fellow patients said, “It’s working, and I really wish it weren’t.”

On the one hand, I know what he means. It takes effort! There are tons of things I’d rather be doing with my time than breathing eucalyptus steam morning and night, exercising, and juicing vegetables. But if that’s truly how he feels, he’s not desperate enough. When you’ve been ill for over a year and you find something that’s making you feel better, you want to stick with it. (If she’ll still let me through the door, that is.) 

Unlike Granny, Dr. Lisa doesn’t promise sure-fire cures. But she’s seen enough people get healthy to make her believe more firmly every day in the God-given power of the body to fight back when given what it really needs. What’s more, her faith in Jesus Christ makes me feel right at home. Come to think of it, that place embodies much of what a good church should: community, peace, joy, and healing. 

Though I look forward to the day when I can get back to my life and stop going so often, I would want to go whether I was experiencing health issues or not. The joyous atmosphere, encouraging coaching, healing prayers, and gentle nurture are things I wish everyone could experience at least once in their lifetime.

Now, where did I put my jug of stump water? I believe it’s time for a dose.

If These Walls Could Talk...

One of the privileges of my job at City Hall is giving tours of the grand ol’ edifice to students. I recently led a large group of small people from Grades 2 and 3 at LaVerendrye School through. What a delightful bunch! When asked if they knew who gets to pick the Mayor, one answered, “the Queen.” Another informed me that taxes are those things with debit cards, and another wanted to know if that wall of glass blocks at the back of the front office is where we keep all the water for the City.

I’m confident they went home a little better informed, but I wonder how much their parents and grandparents know about our City Hall. Can I interest you in a crash course?

Did you know it was designed by Thomas L. Fuller, who also designed the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa? That’s because it was originally a post office, built in 1898, and now has the distinction of being the only small urban Fuller Post Office remaining in Western Canada.

Did you know the east door leading to the lobby once featured Portage’s only revolving door?

The building was given major renovations (1920-22) with the completion of a one-storey addition to the rear of the building. That’s where I work. No other major alterations took place until after the building became the seat of city administration in 1960.

Did you know about the controversy surrounding the building? And why wouldn’t there be, when there was a whopping $25,000 being squandered on it? In 1894 when the federal government agreed to erect a new post office in Portage la Prairie, there was a dispute over the site. The original site was the corner of Second St. SW and Saskatchewan Avenue. This decision aroused protest that the building would be too far from the business center. Work on the building began in 1895 and foundations completed in November. But petitions to change the location, supported by resolutions from the town council, caused work to halt. Finally, after the federal election of 1896, the federal government agreed to move to the present site. Even this decision caused antagonism and the federal authorities were condemned for extorting more money from the public to move the building.

The creaky ol' staircase

When the building was completed and opened in 1898, the ground floor held the post office, while Customs and Inland Revenue were located on the second floor. Brick vaults on each floor remain today. The caretaker’s quarters were located on the third floor, now used for storage. That’s the place where, if we must go up there, we tell each other “if I’m not back in half an hour, come looking.”

Did you know the City Library also occupied space in the building for a few years? And the RCMP detachment occupied the basement area awhile. Two jail cells remain down there, but they have yet to lock me up. Surprising, I know.

When I led the children through, they found the creaky staircase hysterical while their teachers appreciated the beauty of the polished British Columbia Spruce wood.

The following week, thank-you letters arrived from the students, which I promptly posted on the front of my desk because they were too cute not to share.

And now for the quiz.

How old is City Hall? If it’s still 2012 when you read this and you answered 114 years, you are correct. We staff complain about its antiquated heating, its draughts and its creaks, but I wouldn’t care to predict what the buildings going up today will look like 114 years from now. Would you?

                                                                                                               

Child of the King

I'm sure you see the resemblance.

So apparently, I am related to Elvis Presley.

At a family wedding recently, my siblings informed me our dad’s sister’s husband’s first cousin was Elvis Presley’s mother. Guess that explains my hunka-hunka burnin’ personality.

“Well, anybody could say that,” I argued.  But they insisted, giving me a look that says, “You ain’t nuthin’ but a hound dog.” How had I remained ignorant of this important piece of trivia when they’d all known it forever?

“Don’t be cruel,” I said.

We all wondered the same thing: when would a piece of the Graceland pie come our way? The cheques must be in the mail.

Pondering what I’ll do with my share when it arrives, it occurred to me that Elvis’s daughter was married to the late Michael Jackson for a couple of years. Imagine the loot accompanying THAT union! When I was thirteen and plastering my bedroom walls with pages torn from Tiger Beat magazine and ruining the fake woodgrain wallpaper by taping up pictures of the Jackson Five (right between Donny Osmond and David Cassidy), it never occurred to me that little Michael and I would one day be kin. But it does explain the uncanny resemblance.

Checking out the branches of Elvis’s family tree on-line, I never did find myself — or even his mom’s cousin who married Dad’s sister. But I did learn some things I didn’t know, probably common knowledge to hard core Elvis fans. Did you know his maternal great-great-great-grandmother, Morning White Dove, was a full-blooded Cherokee Indian? His paternal great-grandmother, Rosella, bore nine children out of wedlock and never once revealed to her children who their fathers were. 

His maternal grandparents were first cousins (the inspiration for “Kissin’ Cousins”?) He had an identical twin who was stillborn, named Jesse Garon. Imagine if there had been two of them. Methinks somebody’s blue suede shoes might have been stepped on after all.

Isn’t it interesting how we feel self-important in unearthing a connection to the rich and famous, regardless how all-shook-up their lineage? The truth is, go back far enough and you’ll eventually discover we are all connected. Humbling, ain’t it?

I confess, I’ve never taken much interest in genealogy. I figure it doesn’t really matter when you’ve been adopted by the most famous King of all. The documentation goes back much farther than the internet, too. The Bible tells me things like:

“But to all who believed him and accepted him, he gave the right to become children of God.” (John 1:12)

“For you are all the children of God by faith in Christ Jesus.” (Galatians 3:26), and

“See how very much our Father loves us, for he calls us his children, and that is what we are!” (I John 3).

I could go on.

In her hymn, Child of the King, Harriett Buell wrote, “I once was an outcast stranger on earth, a sinner by choice and an alien by birth. But I’ve been adopted, my name’s written down; an heir to a mansion, a robe, and a crown.”

Now that’s an inheritance worth waiting for.

How to Live with Me for 35 Years (...and counting!)

First of all, yes. I was a child bride. Now that we’ve cleared that up, I can tell you October 1, 2012 will mark our 35th wedding anniversary.

Like most people, I’m super easy to live with—when I’m alone. If I could travel back to 1977 and present my groom with a manual called “How to Live with Terrie,” below are just three of the things it might contain. Too bad I didn’t know any of them then.

#1. She’ll expect constant praise.

The first few months we were married, I was crushed when nary a word was forthcoming about the meals I placed on the table. I grew up in a home where expressions of appreciation for food were a natural part of the meal. At the very least, “mmmmm” was heard as we enjoyed whatever was placed before us. If nothing was said, that could mean only one thing: nobody liked it.

Somehow, I’d failed to notice Jon’s family didn’t necessarily share this custom. You came to the table, you ate what was offered, you left. Conversation flowed freely, but rarely about the food.

Gradually, I got used to this and stopped expecting applause for my efforts. And Jon has learned to say “thanks for lunch” before he leaves the table.

#2. She’ll try to run your life.

We were about eight years and two children in when Jon gave me the loveliest surprise for Christmas: a coupon for a weekend away, just the two of us, to do whatever I wanted. Being the planner I am, I prearranged every half-hour slot of our weekend. My schedule included times for rest and recreation, but also long chunks devoted to evaluating our financial, housing, parenting, and every other goal I could imagine. I created charts and graphs to keep us on track. I was in my glories, knowing we would return home with all our problems solved. I just knew that once Jon saw how great this was, he’d agree it should be an annual event.

At last, the big weekend arrived. I couldn’t understand why Jon wasn’t thrilled with my plan. My schedule lasted about 30 minutes before he had enough. One small goal would have been sufficient to tackle in a weekend.

#3. She’ll become a writer and blab your life to the world.

I promised my family I’d provide the opportunity to veto anything pertaining to them before hitting the “send” button. Jon’s a good sport. Last Valentine’s Day, he agreed to let me tell column readers the story of his on-stage pants-splitting adventure. That story later landed in one of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books, many of which are translated into foreign languages and sold all over the world.

One day, we’ll find ourselves on a tour bus in Jerusalem and a little old lady will read our nametags and say, “Hey, you’re that guy who split his pants on stage after his wife dragged him into a church drama.”

But she’ll say it in Hebrew and we won’t have a clue what she’s saying. I’ll assume she wants my autograph. Jon will assume she’s saying, “God bless you, you poor man.”

It’s just as well such detailed manuals don’t exist, or most of us wouldn’t have the courage to commit in the first place. But had I stayed single all these years, I would still think I was practically perfect. We’d both have missed out on countless rough edges rubbed smoother, and on the multitude of private jokes that accumulate during three and a half decades together.

Life’s storms have made us lean hard on God, family, friends, and yes, counsellors to help us hold on. A song sung at our wedding said, “We don’t know what tomorrow holds, but we know who holds tomorrow.”

 

True then. Better understood now.