Author Archives: Arwyn

How to make chicken noodle soup from scratch when sick with the third cold in a row during the winter of DOOM

Step one: make bone broth
(Two days to two+ months prior)
Make fried chicken/bbq chicken/chicken roast. Save bones in fridge — make mental note not to feed broth to gluten-free friends if using fried chicken. Invent plausible explanation for denial of broth to gluten-free friends. Resolve not serve broth to outsiders. Pray to remember this resolve.
Save onion, celery, other veg ends in fridge or freezer, over course of week — make mental note not to let friends look in freezer and/or invent plausible cover story for storage of, essentially, trash.
Wake up feeling not quite as busy as usual. Toss bones and veggie scraps into pot, add extra celery; cover with water. Look into pot. Make mental note to not look into pot next time.
Take older child to school. Come home, nurse baby, watch Battlestar Galactica. Wonder if the Chief could get any sexier. Remember stove never got turned on. Watch next episode with sleeping baby in lap. Turn on stove.
Add spices.
Look at garlic, look at baby in sling: toss garlic cloves in whole, with skin. Try not to think about it.
Add more spices.
Let boil.
Sit down.
Hear broth boiling over, curse, swear baby to secrecy on both counts.
Get up, turn stove down.
Add more spices.
(Shift laundry, empty dishwasher.)
Sit down. Decide no, the Chief could not get any sexier. Make mental note to look up Chief/Lee slash. Never let anyone know this thought.
Make lunch.
Look at broth — curse, remove grey celery, add more water.
Eat lunch.
Taste broth, gag. Add salt. Taste broth. Glare at broth.
Bake chicken for dinner.
Add extra bones after dinner.
Debate leaving broth on stove overnight. Remember house’s lack of fire extinguisher. Turn broth off, put in fridge before bed.
Sleep. Dream of Chief/Lee.
Put pot back on stove in morning.
Add water throughout day as needed.
Adjust spices.
Admire deep red color of broth, then remember onion skins. Shrug.
Get bored waiting, turn stove off.
Scour kitchen for jars; spend half hour matching jars and lids. End up with two jars without lids, ten lids without jars. Glare at cabinets.
Strain broth into jars, 3/4 full. Put in fridge.
(Optional: empty ice cube trays, put broth in trays, freeze. Transfer to plastic bag when frozen.)
Next day: loosen lids, transfer to freezer. Pray for sturdy glass and no breakages.
Following day: check jars, give thanks, tighten lids. Do not make joke about overscrewed jarheads. Remember dream. Do not smirk.

Step two: Decide to make soup
(Day before)
Watch in dismay as entire house comes down with another cold, two days after FINALLY starting to feel better from the last. Do not go grocery shopping, because COLD OF DOOM.
Look in fridge, cry.
Look in freezer, whimper.
Pull out frozen thigh meat, last two tiny jars of broth.
Take box of tissues and bottle of water to bed.

Step three: Make soup
Engage partner in game of chicken and/or woe-is-me contest over who feels worse.
Lose.
Pull out pot from cabinet. Wash pot, grumbling.
Set pot on stove to heat/dry.
Chop chicken into bite-ish sized pieces.
Remember empty pot on stove, curse.
Add dollop coconut oil.
Realize water had not entirely evaporated; place lid on pot to avoid oil explosions.
Give thanks for high burning point of coconut oil.
Toss chicken in pot as chopped.
Tell older child he may not taste the raw chicken.
Curse keeping him cooped up at home instead of sending to school.
Resolve to pretend not to notice next time he is sick.
Make mental note to investigate chloroform purchase.
Give child kiss; tell him to wash hands before coming back to help.
Stir chicken — turn up heat.
Add spices.
Wash knife and cutting board; yell at tell child not to add any further spices.
Chop onion; add; stir.
Add more spices while child is not looking.
Pull last four, previously-rejected carrots and remainder of celery stalk from fridge. Scrub carrots carrots. Bend celery; shrug, rinse. Chop all.
Add carrots, stir.
Let child add more spices.
Add cup of water, scrape bottom of pot. Pretend “browning” the chicken was on purpose.
Add celery, stir.
Go to fridge to pull out broth. Attempt to pour broth in. Realize broth is still frozen. Curse.
Yell at Tell child yes, that IS a bad word.
Spend ten minutes pouring boiling broth from pot into jars and out again to melt broth.
Wait until remaining frozen chunks of broth melt in pot.
Bring to boil.
Squish last half of garlic bulb; put in jar, hand jar to child to shake.
Teach child meaning of word “vigorous”. Listen to him say “I’m being VIGOROUS” ten thousand times to background of garlic shaking. Make mental note to buy another pair of noise canceling headphones.
Finish peeling garlic, mince finely.
Look at garlic; think that’s a lot of garlic. Remind self to think of it as chemical warfare against cold germs. Contemplate chopping more garlic. Remember noise. Decide against.
Add noodles to boiling soup.
Forget to add peas.
Add garlic. Repress urge to cackle evilly at imminent cold virus death. Resolve to check temperature after dinner.
Boil until noodles are done.
Serve.
Leave clean up for partner.
Brag about cooking skills on social media.
Collapse into bed.

BEARS. IN. SPACE!

Ok, so not actually bears, but rather teeny tiny extremophiles — nicknamed water bears, properly called tardigrades — but I still think this video, and this phylum, is pretty much the best thing ever.

Yes, it includes a Doctor Who reference. But really, that’s almost superfluous to the awesome. (Almost.)

Watch:

(I’m typing this one-fingered, stretching to reach the keyboard, so I’m not doing a transcript, but if anyone does or finds one, please share!)

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”.

I’ll just let that sink in for a moment.

And repeat:

There’s no such thing as “healthy food”.

It’s true.

There is Health Food, as a cultural construct1, but, as a cultural construct, it is ever changing; currently we are undergoing a cultural shift from low-fat to low-carbohydrate food earning the appellation. But, aside from the fact that we simply cannot agree on what qualifies, there is so such thing as “healthy food”.

One of the most frustrating things about being a fat woman is: everyone is convinced they have The Perfect Diet, and if I would just follow it, the fat would just walk away2. Everyone. Everyone. The veg*ns. The Paleos. The Atkin adherents. The raw food peeps. Eat no fat; eat tons of fat. Eat no grains; eat soaked grains. Eat a fastfood turkey sandwich every day; eat nothing from a store. Everyone is convinced they have The Truth on what is Healthy Food, and what the other guy (or the fat chick) is eating ain’t it.

Or, maybe, for the super open minded and tolerant, they’ll say we’re not quite sure just what healthy food is (except you won’t find it at McDonald’s). But by all the saints and Starbucks, don’t question the idea that there is such a thing as Healthy Food, because surely, if we just apply Science/Prayer/Common Sense/Historical Analysis/Noble Savage Wisdom, we’ll figure it out. And no one will ever die.

What? That’s the logical conclusion to the idea of Healthy Food. If we eat right, we won’t get sick. If we eat right, we won’t get fat. If we eat right, we won’t become diabetic. If we eat right, our kids won’t get autism. (If we eat right, we won’t be infertile, and we’ll be able to have children, who will obviously be free of all illness and defect.) If we eat right, we won’t be crazy. If we eat right, we won’t die from heart attack or stroke or cancer or liver failure or kidney disease or AIDS — and, if we eat right when we’re pregnant, neither will our children.

These are all things believers in the myth of healthy food have said. Half of them to me.

Ok, but let’s say that’s a hyperbolic misrepresentation of the position of Healthy Food’s believers3. Let’s say that when you say “she got diabetes because she ate like crap” you don’t actually mean “she wouldn’t have gotten diabetes if she’d eaten right” which itself could only be true if “no one who eats right gets diabetes”, which is utter bollocks. Let’s say that, instead, you have amazing powers of sight into alternate dimensions and a perfect ability to predict outcomes of statistical likelihoods4 — because that what it comes down to, risk, with some eating patterns carrying, on a population scale, different risk profiles than other eating patterns. You’re just saying healthy food improves your odds, not actually calling healthy food a panacea. But there’s still healthy food and unhealthy food, right?

No.

If we are not claiming there is a food, or a way of eating, that brings perfect health (which is assuming we can even meaningfully define “perfect health” in the first place), then the best we can do with food is risk management. “Healthy” can only exist as a comparative, not absolute, value.

So, compared to what? Which is healthier, raw cultured butter from pastured cows, or cold-pressed organic olive oil? That depends on whether you’re vegan, or lactose intolerant, or live in a dessert without a means of keeping food chilled5, I’d say. Which is healthier, a plate of brown rice spaghetti in fat-free sauce made from tomatoes from your own garden, or a protein shake with artificial sugar substitutes — to a diabetic? Which is healthier, the home cooked meal a growth-delayed, sensory-averse child absolutely won’t touch, or the McDonald’s chicken nuggets they’ll scarf?

Food — all food — brings things that are “good” for us, and things that are “bad”; or, more accurately, things that we need in that moment and things that we can store for later and things we don’t need (right then or at all) and things that we have too much of and things that actively harm us. All foods have all of these — only the specifics and amounts of each change. And the specifics are variable depending on our needs, which not only are different from person to person but each person’s needs change all the damn time.

Given that no food can fill all needs simultaneously6, and eating is a practice in good enough balance over time, how can we call a food “healthy” as an absolute?7 Food is meant to meet our needs8, and can only be evaluated on its ability to do so. Even a Twinkie is “healthy” for a person starved for caloric energy.

So there it is. There absolutely are foods that have a better need-filling to harm ratio in any given situation9. There absolutely are reasons to aim for eating foods that better meet more of your nutritional needs more of the time (though you have no moral obligation to do so). There so absolutely are reasons to call for large corporations to take out unnecessary harmful components from the food they sell and for, at the least, factual labeling about those additives. I disagree with not a piece of that, nor with helping people, should they wish, learn how to feed themselves in a way that meets more of their needs more of the time with less harm. Please, if that’s your calling, keep at it.

But the fact remains: there is no such thing as “healthy food”.

  1. Whence we have the terms “crunchy” and “granola” to describe people — as many would describe me.
  2. SOMEONE BUY ME THIS.
  3. It isn’t.
  4. Remind me not to play craps with you.
  5. Helloooo rancid oils.
  6. For example: the presence of calcium inhibits the absorption of iron (and, pertinent to both me and the Boychick, oral thyroid hormone supplementation), and therefore we need to eat some foods high in calcium and deficient in iron, and others high in iron but lacking calcium.
  7. Even postulating the theoretical existence of a food that perfectly filled all of our nutritional needs simultaneously in a perfectly balanced way: would it be healthy to be bored out of our ever-loving gourds by eating the same exact thing all the time?
  8. Not just nutritional needs, but emotional, ritual, social, and so on — none of these is more or less important than others.
  9. A large apple may do as well for our theoretical Twinkie-eater — though only if they have the teeth to eat it.

Cooking and Competence (and Massively Mangled Metaphors)

Recipe for competence

Stuffed squash and
Sausage stew and
Spiced muffins and
Sweet potato popovers and
Creamy corn chowder and
Risotto from scratch and
Stock from scraps
  because I am able
  and they are there

Chop, stir, spoon, cook,
dash of this because it smells right,
measure of that to rise it well

Each meal might last as long as leftovers, built into the menu
  or
  a frozen portion put up for who knows when
(more likely gone tonight)

and

this is how
I feed
my family
  self
    soul

***

I’ve been cooking more, lately. We’re back to weekly meal plans (and their requisite weekly shopping trips), a chore that creates more work, yet (done well) makes our lives easier. There is mindfulness to be found in the movement of food from pot to plate, to be sure, but sometimes it’s more a struggle to eke out the time, trade off the babe, fend off the child (or, harder, invite him in to help). Yet when it is done: I have done it. We, more likely, but for all the effort is communal, my pride is personal. I was taught some skills in each discrete kitchen task, but never shown, in instruction or by model, the how of putting it all together in putting a meal on the table. This is learned. This is mine.

There are so few areas of my life I feel unreservedly, realistically competent. Not confident — a wager on oneself, a boast of one’s abilities — but competent: to know a job has been done well, and I have done it, not by fluke or luck or Herculean effort, but by showing up and simply doing. A repeatable act.

I have skills as a parent. Contrary to the trolls taken to haunting my comment box, I am not a bad parent. I have skills, and creativity, and a vast, emphatic love for my children. I have a metaphorical toolbox full of skills and tricks and guiding ideas — but its latch sticks. Its hinge is squeaky sometimes, and I’m not sure there’s enough oil in the world to make it open smoothly when I most need it. I do not feel competent as a parent, not past infancy. I cannot stir lovingly and spice well and bake children with brilliantly balanced flavors, nor whip up a smooth and full and just-right-sweet relationship with them. I know how to hold and I know how to hold firm, and I even have an idea of when each is needed, but the synthesis (the putting into practice when three burners are full and the oven needs emptying), the ownership and overarching knowledge of this parenting gig, is lacking. My snuggle soufflés, like my similes, fall flat.

But in the kitchen: this I can do. There’s no cookbook I follow (though I always have Joy at hand, a metaphor too obvious to pursue), no single philosophy beyond “food as much like food as seems appropriate” (because sometimes there’s only time for canned beans, or a craving only boxed mac’n'cheese will fill). I use what I have, clean out the fridge when things get funky, mix beloved dishes with new recipes with spontaneous inspirations, and feed us, and feed us, and feed us — knowing none of it will last, knowing failures and fiascoes are blessedly fleeting, knowing with each meal I am building something worthy, knowing tomorrow’s drivethru cannot uneat today’s homemade fare.

This is competence, and I did not know its lack until I first tasted its elixir. I find myself craving more.

Terrible grace

My mind is relentless. It churns out hatred, bitterness, recriminations, shame and guilt and hate, hate, hate. All for me, all at me, all about me and the many, many ways I fail.

I’m a horrible mother. I’m a horrible person. I’ve let so many people down. I should step away and hide away and go away. I’m bad. I’m bad. I’m bad.

What would happen if I said no? No to the thoughts, no to the recriminations, no to the hateful, hateful hate.

No: you yelled at your child, and I love you anyway.

No: you have a messy house, and I love you anyway.

No: you start projects you haven’t had time to finish, and I love you anyway.

No: you keep thinking these thoughts, and I love you anyway.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

How painful. To be seen, to be known, to be loved despite it all, because of it all. The fire sweeping through the diseased prairie, terrifying to behold.

Let it burn through me.

No.
and
I love you.

Yes.