understanding (n.)

Alternatively titled, Lisa jumps on the whole food bandwagon (not to be confused with Whole Foods the grocery store, a place at which I cannot afford to shop).

Last term was a scary time of busy, lonely, rushed, exhaustion, blah, blah, blah you already know all of that.  During that time, my diet hit an all time low.  And we're talking low.  Daily morning mochas. Most meals eaten out during the week (and  not at Hipster Vegan spots, either).  A lot of Easy Mac when I was working at the ADHD Lab.  In the spirit of authenticity, I also ate a lot of Ben & Jerry's.

This term I decided that, although it would take some work, I had to do something differently.  And I am proud to tell you that I am off the mocha-easymac-fastfood circle of doom.

Hello, my name is Lisa and if it has no nutritional content, is chock full of chemicals and preservatives, but tastes delicious, I will put it in my mouth.

Since the first of the year, it's been whole foods, whole grains and lean proteins.  Very, very little processed goods.

But last Sunday Shoes walked in the door with a small bag of potato chips and a 7 Up.  I had already had a "cheat" meal on Friday night and knew I had already used my weekly free pass.  But man, I wanted those potato chips.  So freaking badly.  I could taste the wonderful, sweet, tangy, smoky barbeque taste on my tongue by just smelling them.  Shoes hit the road for the Vineyard Town at about 6:30 pm (another all too brief weekend visit come to a close) and I set to the internet, desperately searching for a way to satisfy the new craving I had for crunchy salty amazingness.

And that's when I stumbled up on the Kale Chips phenomenon.  As in, all of my internet searches took me to the same place of Kale Nirvana.  And I decided to follow the path to inner healthy fake potato chip peace myself.

The kale before I ripped it up:



Wow.  That's a lot more than I thought it would be and I still have half a head of kale left.  (Is it called a head of kale?)  Also didn't want to crowd my little kale friends so decided to do 2 batches.



After.


The result?  One happy, still eating healthy, graduate student.  I never would have thought I would say it, but these little greens crisp right up, are crunchy, airy, light, salty and so stinking addictive.   My internet advisers assured me the kale chips would keep, so I let them dry out a little more on the counter, put them in airtight containers, and the next morning experienced kale fail.  They were no longer crispy, but back to their leafy selves.  I'm not sure what happened; commenters on Kath's blog recommended leaving them out and not bagging them up right away.  The first result, however, made the effort entirely worthy it.

Kiss my foot, barbeque evil.

If you search the internet, you'll find recipes everywhere.  I got this one from Kath Eats Real Food and will be re-visiting her website again.  And again.  (Her recipe at the bottom of this post.)

And, just in case you're curious, I also love these websites for delicious, don't feel bad about putting it in your body, food.  (Has eating whole food made a difference?  10 pounds lost, more energy, less moodiness, clearer skin and a focused mind say absolutely.  Will I ever fall off the whole food bandwagon?  I probably will!  And it will be delicious, maybe even worth it, and then I'll collect myself and get back on.  We can only do our best.)

The Gracious Pantry
Clean Eating Magazine
Clean Eating Club

Kale Chips


*  Preheat oven to 375
*  Tear off leaves of one head of kale into bite sized pieces and spread on cookie sheet
*  Drizzle with 2 tsp olive oil
*  Add parmesan, asiago or seasoning of your choice (I went with just a little light, sea salt and pepper)
*  Bake for about 15 minutes, until kale is crispy, edges are brown, and kale moves around in pan

At a local market, Portlanders pay a pretty penny for balsamic vinegar.

Can anyone else explain the mysterious workings of the twin mind? 

Arizona (of Grey's Anatomy): "This is not general surgery on a miniature scale. These are tiny humans. These are children. They believe in magic. They play pretend. There is fairy dust in their IV bags. They hope, and they cross their fingers, and they make wishes, and that makes them more resilient than adults. They recover faster, survive worse. They believe."


My current clients are tiny.  They are victims of physical abuse, sexual abuse, neglect.  They come from families with multiple stressors:  poverty, racism, violence.  They have PTSD.   Many of them do not come from homes where they are told how wonderful they are or how much they are loved.  They soil their pants and we call it "sneaky poo"* .  They have severe separation anxiety and we spy on the "scary feelings."  Their stuffed animals talk to them and give them strength and magical powers to overcome fear.


Sometimes they play in weird ways with dollhouses.


Something always comes out of dollhouse play.


And little bit by little bit, we work on the things that are big and scary and bad.  Because those things, it turns out, aren't really a match for the fierceness of my shortest clientele.


And we end sessions like this:


My 6 year old client:  "Lisa!  The big hand is on the 11 and you said when it got on the 11 it was time to put away our toys!  Can we play with the paint next time?  I got goldfish crackers today for snack.  I love goldfish crackers.  I love cheddar!  I'm so glad I'm not allergic to cheddar 'cause then I couldn't eat CHEESE!!  And next time, can we talk about our feelings some more, too? AND play Connect Four?"


My friend, I also love cheese and Connect Four.
But I do  kind of dread dollhouse play ...


(*  Freeman, J., Epston, D. & Lobovits, D. (1997).  Playful Approaches To Serious Problems.  Norton & Company:  New York.)

Portland Aerial Tram, mentioned last week.
Coming up.

... a girl, like me, who walks by herself across campus at 9:30 pm several times a week, starts to get a little concerned about her safety.  And a girl, like me, who is a social worker, knows what kind of crazy trouble people find themselves in.  And a girl, like me, has no, NONE, excuse not to safety plan a little.  And a girl, like me, who has a deputy prosecuting attorney for a partner, hears irritated words from partner because partner is genuinely concerned for my safety.  And a girl, like me, who has many good social work student friends, hears many admonishments about safety every time we have class.

So this week, I swallowed my pride and called Campus Safety when I got off the bus for an escort across campus. These nasty little nagging voices kept saying, "Soft!  You're soft!  You know how to hurt people and take people down using a side arm bar takedown and now you're all city soft!"  And to make things worse?

The security officer was female.

But the true icing on the cake?

Apparently, it's common practice for PSU Public Safety (oooh, I hope that shows up in a search engine now) to put a girl like me, who  just needs an escort, in the back of the Campus PD car and drive alllll the way around campus to where I need to be.

A little mini parade!  For all to see!  In the BACK of the PD CAR  Behind the gate.  On the plastic seat.  With no handle inside because you can't get out until they let you out.

 And then maybe it's common practice (or maybe it was just my lucky day) for the driver of the car (2 officers!) to go as fast as possible around corners.  Turns out they're a little bored at night.    I can hear you say it now:  "Isn't a little humiliation worth your safety?"

NO.

I'm going to the running supply store tomorrow to buy pepper spray, and if I can't find any, I'll buy the bear mace at REI the employee did his best to persuade me NOT to buy.  I don't need to be the central figure in any more Campus PD parades.

(Shoes isn't pleased with my re-found independence.)

When I have my uncomplicated little camera with me, I tend to look at things differently.  Hence, my new Monday posts.   {In the land of diagnosing mental illness and treating very hurt children, it is right and fitting and good to look at something different.  And.  I love this city, for all of its strange, idiosyncratic, hipster-as-religion quirks.}


Downtown.
From the Tram.
A usual part of my Saturday commute.