Day 77 Sing It, Sarah!
Brian, our marriage counselor, once told us very firmly that we were to make sure we had a date night once every week, and an overnight or weekend trip every couple of months. “There’s no reason you can’t do this!” he emphasized.
No reason, maybe, but lots of excuses, especially in the last few years.
Nevermind all that, though; tonight, it’s Date Night! Dear Husband bought us tickets for the Sarah McLachlan concert tonight, third row seats. And I don’t know about men and dates (well I do actually… hm, nevermind that, too) but in my world, a date always has to involve one thing: food. So we’re going out for dinner first.
In Western union money transfer honour of the event I have donned clothing other than yoga wear and – wait for it – applied cosmetics. True story.
Brian would be so proud.
Day 76 Botulism, Anyone?
I got all kitchen-inspired yesterday by Secrets of Moms Who Dare to Tell All (how can you resist such a tagline?) to make what Secret-Telling Mom Liz calls the Best Macaroni & Cheese Ever. Since I’m pretty fond of all pasta and all cheese, it’s a lead-pipe cinch that a recipe claiming the best ever combo will call to me.
Not the best strategy for my cholesterol-lowering plan (which isn’t so much a plan as an observation. As in “I should do something to lower my cholesterol.”)
Nevertheless, in our house we get excited about a fresh bulk purchase of President’s Choice White Cheddar Mac-n-Cheese. No plain ole’ KD for us anymore, thank you very much! So this concoction promised to be a crowd-pleaser.
Unfortunately, my day got away on me a bit, and by the time I got started, I only had about a half-hour before I had to leave for yoga. I’d have to hurry.
I went into the pantry, a niggling suspicion that my grocery purchasing had been a little lax of late. Sure enough, no macaroni. Oh well, I found two crumpled-up bags of opened fusilli noodles. That would do just fine. Maybe not quite as much I needed, but I’d make do.
I started the water boiling and got out another pot for the cheese sauce. Hm. The recipe called for Gruyere. I could substitute goat cheese, from another gratin recipe that my family had given the thumbs-up to. No problem.
But as the noodles cooked, I realized there really wasn’t enough of them. I’d have to augment the recipe. Protein and vegetables, that would be good. I had canned crabmeat, oooh, yum. Broccoli or kale would be great but I was all out of fresh vegetables. Then I found a can of artichoke hearts. We love the cheesy crab-and-artichoke dip appetizer, I thought. Why not put it in with the pasta?
Great idea. I pulled the tab on the artichokes and… hisssss-splat!! The thing exploded like a shaken beer can. Sour artichoke-juice all over me, the counter, the fridge, the floor. I stood dripping for a moment, wondering how I was going to deal with this in time to make my yoga class, then remembered I could always offload the clean-up to my daughter. After all, that’s why you have kids, right?
I tipped the artichokes into the sink, noticing that they looked and smelled just fine. I nibbled on the corner of one, thinking I could give them a rinse and add them to the casserole, where no one would be the wiser. Tasted fine. Wait. Isn’t botulism tasteless?
Reluctantly I spat out my tid-bit and ran the whole mess down the garburator.
Now I’ve got a drippy, sticky floor, various unrinsed cans, spoons, pots and containers littering the counter, plus an incomplete casserole that bears no resemblance to the initial inspiration.
Then I remembered there was a can of kale somewhere in the back of the pantry. Now, I’ve grown fond of fresh kale. It’s a super-food, you know, so it’s got to be a good cholesterol-fighter. And it’s got a nice crunch and tang. I have no idea, however, why I purchased a sodding can of it. Or when, for that matter.
But desperate times, and all that. I blew the dust off it, opened it and dumped it in. A bit more pungent than the fresh stuff, but maybe the crab smell would override it, I thought. Mixed it all together with the sauce, hid it under a layer of breadcrumbs, covered the whole mess with a mountain of grated parmesan cheese and I dashed off to my class.
“This is good,” my husband mumbled around a mouthful. He’s always been easy to feed. It probably helps that he has no sense of smell. I’m not kidding.
When I told him my cookery adventure, he paused, fork in mid-flight. “But it’s safe to eat. Right?”
I hastened to reassure him. By that point, my experiment had zero appeal to me but everyone else seemed to enjoy it, so what do I know.
And right now, before I head off to today’s class, I have to fire up the steam-cleaner. Even I am grossed out by the condition of my kitchen floor.
By the way, anyone know the symptoms of botulism??
Day 75 McYoga Bad Boy
There’s another woman at my studio who’s also going for 90 days, Heather, and we compare notes whenever we happen to be at the same class. We’re both a little amazed, I think, that we’ve made it this far.
Today Heather brought her brother in with her. She’d been talking it up, I guess, and he finally decided to give it a try. As always, it’s a bit entertaining when there’s fresh meat in the hot room. (For a few minutes anyway; as soon as we get going, it’s all you can do to pay attention to your own breathing, never mind anyone else’s performance.)
But unline Naked Sweaty Boys, Heather’s brother was of mature years and girth, and our gentle amusement gave way to alarm as reality landed on him. He spent the last few postures listing sideways on his haunches, one hand on his chest.
“Is he okay?” another woman asked in the change room, after class. Several of us gathered around to hear the answer. It had crossed my mind that if I do Bikram yoga long enough, I’m bound to see someone pass out or throw up or something eventually.
“He’s fine,” answered Heather, waving away our concern with typical sisterly nonchalance. “Probably has a bit more respect for me now.”
Fortunately, the instructor told him, as they do all beginners, to lie down if he began to feel dizzy, light-headed or nauseous. The goal, we’re all told, is simply to stay in the room.
But some instructors are more stringent than others. Bikram Choudhury himself has a reputation for insulting students, chastising them, berating them all as part of his unique – and copyrighted – version of yoga. Maybe he can get away with it because of his broken English and chipper accent, but I don’t think I’d have gone back for a second class, had it been my junk body he was poking at.
I like my studio and I like the workout, but the man himself… well, you decide …