The Dollar Meal for Vegans ~ Where Have You Bean?

I was passing by a fast food joint.  I started to wonder about the economics of feeding oneself.  How does one beat the dollar burger?  It's filling.  It saves time.  It's yummy.  And if there are children involved, they don't mind.  But are there any vegan alternatives for the same price?

T. Campbell's The China Study does bring one to consider the merits of a plant food diet.  I suspect China's economy and way of life is changing so I wonder if the outcomes linked to geographical demographics in the study will be vastly different years from now.  Good reason to keep studying China.

I have, however, stopped thinking that a certain diet is a panacea.  Every one is different.  But I will say I am ever open to challenges with value.  And the value is to provide an alternative to vegans - or omnivores who wish for variety.

So this was my quest the past week:  To provide a vegan option to the dollar burger.

The solution came in the form of organic mung beans.  Yes, organic labels come with a premium on groceries.  However, consider eating less as organic groceries have higher nutritive value. [1]

With a higher nutritive value, there is the benefit of eating smaller quantities of food.  My grandmother who grew up under Japanese imperialism always spoke about eating 80% of maximum stomach capacity.  It has been my observation that Koreans eat way more than their Japanese counterparts.  Eating 80% of stomach capacity keeps the mind active and the body with more reserve in energy for other housekeeping matters than digesting food.

How does one gauge the effective point of satiety?  I suppose the threshold is reached when one thinks, "Gosh, I want another piece of that pie but I really shouldn't."

George Burns took the 80% rule further to 50%;  he only ate half of what was served on his plate.  He gave the Okinawans a run for their yen.

Of course longevity has other factors than diet.  Following one's dharma and cultivating meaningful connections are essential.  I have a feeling George Burns was doing what was in his seed - making people laugh.  He's the only centenarian I know who's puffed a lot of cigars. 

But back to the quest.  I take a cup of dry organic mung beans.  Price:  $1.00

The germination / sprouting charts make my head spin and I always forget information I can look up.  So I soak most things for 24-hours.  There is no harm in over-soaking.

Then I filter out the water and place the beans in a mesh cloth bag.  Hang it and water the bag morning and night.  If you tend to forget, place it in your shower.  You'll remember it in the morning.

Once the tail grows the same or twice the length of the bean, take it out and steam in a small pot for a couple of minutes.  Keep whatever green coat is left on the mung bean.  I steam for a minute or two in boiling water.  The green coats stay a vibrant green color.  If the green becomes a dull khaki, there are less enzymes - and it just doesn't taste as good.

Take the beans out and place in a bowl.  Sprinkle a little salt for taste.  It's so simple and satisfying.  There's warmth and texture.

And the nutritive value:
*  5 grams of protein.  This is complete protein, meaning all 9 essential amino acids are there.  What's more, the sprouting enhances proteolytic cleavage of protein. [2]   Digestion is less taxing and there are amino acids for maximal uptake into the body.  This is efficient protein. 

*  9 grams of fiber

*  One-third the daily recommended value of Vitamin C

*  Significant amounts of Iron, Folate (necessary for mental well-being), Copper and Manganese.

*  Polyphenols that help detoxify the body from pesticides and heavy metals


For a dollar a day, less than the price of hipster coffee, it is possible to grab a meal, stay mentally alert, and boost one's immunity.

Oh, and let's clear the air about flatulence and beans.  Sprouted legume seeds are not as farty so you (and your office mates) can breathe easy. [3,4]  Have a happy and healthy New Year! ~e

REFERENCES

1.  Marcin Baranski, Dominika Srednicka-Tober, Nikolaos Volankakis, et al., "Higher antioxidant and lower cadmium concentrations and lower incidence of pesticide residues in organically grown crops: a systemic literature review and meta-analysis,"  British Journal of Nutrition, 112, no. 5 (2014): 794-811.

2.  Dongyan Tang, Yinma Dong, Hankun Ren, et al., "A review of phytochemistry, metabolite changes, and      medicinal uses of the common food mung bean and its sprouts (Vigna radiata)," Chemistry Central Journal, 8, no. 4 (2014). Available at: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3899625

3.  Purintraphiban Sathithon and Xia Yan-bin, "Effect of sprouting the chemical and nutritional qualities and phenolic alkaloid content of lotus seeds," African Journal of Food Science, 6, no. 7 (2012): 204-211.

4.  Hugo C. Silva and B.S. Luh, "Changes in oligosaccharides and starch granules in germinating beans," Canadian Institute of Food Science and Technology Journal, 12, no.3 (1979): 103-107.

Küchenkinder Potatoes

This piece first posted on October of last year.  Due to popular demand (friends have been asking for the kinder kartoffeln recipe), the article's been reposted. Whether it's for you or your tiny tots, enjoy!

With the first heat coming through last night, I looked forward to sleeping a full 8 hours and waking up to a white, warm, silent fuzziness with the occasional hissing from the radiators.  Instead, at 5 am,  I was alarmed by a clattering, explosive noise.

My first thought was that some pipe had burst and pieces of it had shattered to the floor.  Sensing it was pre-dawn I wondered what time would be appropriate to call the Super as I turned on the light.

Thankfully, it wasn't a pipe.  A porcelain teapot had fallen off the counter.  After sitting on the exact same spot for over a week without a complaint, the teapot decided to leap to the wooden floor.  If this was my old place in San Diego, I would have suspected an earthquake. 

It's a küchenkoller day, I thought.  Anna and Bernhard Blume captures this possessed kitchen phenom quite well in their gelatin silver prints like the one above. 

A great word - Küchenkoller.  It sounds nice to say, but it's a terrible thing.  It's when the furies of Vesta descend upon one's kitchen and wreaks havoc.

For example.  The pressure-cooker lid shoots up to the sky.  Or the evil fridge freezes all your greens.  And the blender somehow throws up the beets and splatters your cabinets with blood.

Or maybe everything is spinning around the salad-spinner except for the spinner.  Blame it on küchenkoller.

Küchen, I am sure means kitchen.  Koller means frenzy or tantrum.  Why koller would come to mean tantrum is interesting.  Maybe there was a man named Koller who often had meltdowns.

When I sense a full-blown küchenkoller episode coming on, I stay away from complicated dishes and approach the kitchen like a child at play.  I keep it very simple but fun.  I call this küchenkinder.  Not sure if this is a true German term or if I'd just made it up.

But I figure it appropriate as "kinder" means children.  Think Kinder Happy Hippo.  I frequently visited one grocer that had the only Kinder Happy Hippo with whole hazelnuts in each bump.

So today's dinner will be an easy kiddie dish that adults can enjoy.  I call it Küchenkinder Potatoes.  First, you will need to buy bite-sized potatoes.  I like the ones from Tasteful Selections that can be had at Whole Foods. 

Just to give you an idea of their size, these have been placed in a small ramekin for 1 serving.

Küchenkinder Potatoes Recipe   (1 serving)

 Ingredients
1 teaspoon of salt
1 teaspoon of olive oil
1 ramekin-full of bite-sized potatoes
1 to 2 teaspoons of Sriracha

Instructions
Turn on oven to 450 degrees.  Meanwhile, cut each potato in half.  Coat the potato halves with the salt and oil by hand in a roomy bowl.

Put the glossy potato-halves onto a non-stick oven pan.  Place in the oven for 30 minutes.

Pull out pan, wearing a mitt.  Slide the potatoes onto a dish.

Squeeze out the Sriracha on the side for dipping.  You really don't need much as it is pretty strong.  1 to 2 teaspoons would be enough.  It's also a great condiment for dieting.  There's so much flavor,  satiety is reached pretty quickly.

If this is to feed real children, hold the Sriracha and substitute with a little ketchup.  If ketchup is not allowed,  then use mustard or Greek yogurt as alternatives.

It's a pretty assortment of red, yellow, and blue mini potatoes made with the least effort.  And the Sriracha on the side takes potatoes to another level.

A small cherry tomato has been placed on the plate to show how small these baby potatoes are.  Yes, they are wee little things.  And yet, these 'kinder' potatoes can really satisfy the 'erwachsene' for supper.

Happy Küchenkoller ~e

 

Arepas Americano

A friend came over and brought a gift.  She somehow knew about my ashram days and decided I needed a yogi-esque fabric to drape across a room.  We laughed our asanas off because it's quite cliché.

As beautiful as they are - and I get it - yogis want to create partitions in rooms with no doors, walls, to create temporary boundaries with a decorative touch.  But sometimes, you pass through these fabric-ated areas and you just want to swipe the material off and use it as a sarong for the beach.   Sarong and yet it feels so right.

It took me back to a trip I made in Colombia.  I could not have asked for a better accommodation.  For $25 U.S. dollars a night, I stayed with a yoga instructor (this was not planned at all on my part). She was generous and trusting.  If every innkeeper was like her and every guest was like me, it really wouldn't be such a lonely planet.

My first day, she fed me what seemed to be the national breakfast of warm cocoa and arepa de choclo. "De choclo" sounds like more chocolate, but it really means corn.  She turned on the range and poured some oil on the cast-iron pan.  Then she placed a thin corn pancake on the pan and melted some cheese.  I folded one side over like an omelette and ate with my hands.  Like this:

It sort of looks like a calorie nightmare for many women in the States.  But the women in Colombia were not overweight.  I wondered.  Perhaps Colombia's corn is not so engineered like ours?  There is no denying that Jeffrey Smith made his way into our consciousness. 

Perhaps the cows are not as stressed out as ours?  Perhaps the people of Colombia are not as stressed out as us.  Maybe it's because the country's closer to the equator?

These are many variables I really can't get into right now to enjoy an arepa de choclo or arepa con queso.  What I can manage are the type of products I use to make one.  That, and knowing it's not something to eat all the time.  It's also a fun meal for children, granted they don't have allergies to the ingredients below.

So here is how I make my version of arepas con queso...

Arepas Americano  (servings: 2)

 

You will need: 

2 soft yellow corn tortillas from La Tortilla Factory.  These are organic, nonGMO, glutenfree.

You can substitute with thin corn english muffins but I really haven't experimented with any that had fit my criteria: a) made with corn; b) organic, nonGMO, glutenfree; c) doesn't have overly processed stuff to compensate for glutenfree quality; d) tastes great.

Raw Goat Milk cheese (Mild Cheddar) from Mt. Sterling co-op creamery.  It's so mild, it tastes nothing like cheddar.  It tastes like Colombia.  I'm not a daily dairy consumer, but this is ideal on occasion for people who like to eat mostly raw foods and digest their food better.

Instructions:

1) Turn toaster oven or oven on to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

2) Using a large cookie ring or the rim of a small bowl, press into the middle of each soft tortilla to make a smaller tortilla.  La Tortilla Factory does sell mini's but I'm not sure if they're organic + nonGMO corn + glutenfree.

3) Place them in toaster oven or oven.

4) In the meantime, cut the square block of raw cheese into 2 thin slices.  Cut each slice further in half to yield 4 rectangles in total.

5) Place 2 rectangles on each mini tortilla.  If the rectangles are much smaller than the diameter of your cut-up tortilla, then place them on one side of the hemisphere so that when you fold them later, there's some cheese to be seen at the edges.  Okay, very wordy here, and I'm sure this is what Youtube is for.

6) As every oven is different and everyone's idea of a thin slice varies, watch your arepas.  When you start to see the cheese has warmed and softened, somewhere between the spectrum of malleable and gooey, the arepas are ready.  We really don't want blistered and gooey.  Yes, burning the roofs of our mouths with pizza was fun way back then, but how many times do we need to go back there?


7) Pull the arepas out.  Fold them in half.  If it's an afterschool date with you and your little one, make some warm cacao or cocoa.

¡Buen apetito!

Asparagus Soup

It's Spring and there are gorgeous daffodils and tulips, but I never buy them.  They're beautiful to look at, and that's about it.  I like designs that have form and function. 

Hyacinths I'll take because they perfume the room.  Asparagus I'll take because it creates one of my favorite soups.  And it was all because of William Poll.

When I first came to the Upper East Side, I was distressed at how there were fewer food choices than in the West Village.  In the WV, one could roll out of bed and find multiple places to find food.

So wasn't I thrilled to explore the William Poll shop and see a variety of dishes already made.  My pick was a glass jar filled with asparagus soup - no heavy cream, no oily film - no nonsense.  Just pure heaven.

I felt the shop was old New York.  At the time, I had no idea Lew Wasserman's wife or Joan Crawford had been regulars.  There was a patina to the place that would be unparalleled.  This much I knew.

When I started asking questions, James Poll looked more than happy to go into everything in every fascinating minutiae.  At the end of the tour, he led me to a delicate woman in her 90s.

She got up from her chair to plant a kiss on my cheek.  Following his mother, James did the same.  At the time, I was a bit baffled and embarrassed.  I wanted to say, "Guys, it's just a jar of asparagus soup."

The nonagenarian was Christine Poll and I now consider myself blessed and proud to say I had been kissed by this amazing woman. 

You don't have to be a Hollywood starlet to have a jar shipped to your poolside.  You don't have to come from New York's bastion of old money to taste it.  On a cold, rainy April day, I stayed in and was inspired to create my own version.  And I think it comes very close to what I tasted years ago.

Asparagus Soup  (1-2 servings)

You will neeed:
1 bunch of asparagus 
100 mL of filtered water

¼  teaspoon of Himalayan pink salt

2 large garlic cloves, pressed

Instructions:
1)  Cut and discard the hard parts of each stalk.
2)  Boil water and steam the asparagus for 4 minutes (with the lid closed)
3)  Cut up the steamed asparagus to fit into a mini food processor (I use a small KitchenAid)
4)  Place the garlic, the salt, asparagus, and the water into the processor (or Vitamix, NutriBullet, etc)
5)  Whiz until you achieve a smooth consistency.  If you prefer a thicker, chunky soup,  whiz less.

The benefits of asparagus are many.  It's a great anti-inflammatory agent.  It regulates your blood sugar.  It's great for gut health.  It is a prebiotic.  Prebiotics feed your gut flora.  Lactobacillus and bifidobacterium need prebiotics to multiply.  The best benefit of all is that it's delicious.

April to May is peak season for asparagus, so get out there and grab a bunch for the last hurrah! ~e

Ujjayi

If you blindfolded me in a yoga studio just two months ago and told me to get my "Ujjayi" going, I'd probably attempt a straddle on the back and do some kegels.  (Something about the word makes me think of the urogenital system).

Now that I know better,  I will keep my legs closed and prepare for some deep, cleansing, calming pranayama.  

Consider how most harried urbanites breathe.  We take quick oxygen from the nostrils to barely the neck and shoulders.  It's expelled just as quickly.  Shallow and short, our daily breathing patterns are not beneficial for optimal health.

In contrast, Ujjayi, is a deep, murmuring breath gliding down the back of the throat, regulated by slow, even contractions of the diaphragm. 

Let's try this.  Pretend you're some creepy stalker.  Whisper to your captive: "Hallo Hahn." Make it creepier.  Draw out the "H" and whisper, "Hhhhhallo Hhhhhhahn."  (Like Hannibal Lecter has laryngitis in Hamburg while trying to intimidate FBI's German liason, Herr Hahn).

Lost?
Okay, watch me first:
Inhale (mouth open) with: "Hhhhhhhhhaaaahhhhh"
Exhale (mouth open) with: "Hhhhhhhhhhaaaahhhhh."
Your turn.

Next step.  Watch me first:
Inhale.  Mouth open, draw, "hhhhhhhaaaaaahhhh." Bring lips together before the exhale.
Exhale.  Mouth closed, whisper over the glottis.
Your turn.

If you find yourself frustrated on the simultaneous Exhale + Closed Mouth + Whisper, try to imitate someone who is in a deep sleep / pre-snore stage.

Now you're ready to Ujjayi like a true yogini.
Watch me keep the mouth closed all throughout.
Inhale (whisper).
Exhale (whisper).
Your turn.

They say the whisper sounds like the ocean.  I don't know.  To me it sounds like a Sleestak.  If you were born after the 80's, google Sleestak and Youtube.  Then tune into the shortest clip.  Listen carefully.

So why Ujjayi?  Well, for starters, Ujjayi is known as the "victorious breath" because it moves you from one asana to another.  Off the mat, it's said to be great for lowering the heart rate and blood pressure as it stimulates the parasympathetic nervous system.

I put my Ujjayi to the test at the airport security line.  This is one place that induces some anxiety and impatience for me.  I was more than willing to be my own guinea pig for this real-life trial.  Conclusion:  just focusing on my Ujjayi breathing put me in a mellow state.  And I moved with less struggle from one action to another until I was free to go to my gate. 

So the next time you're on a crowded supermarket line, at the DMV, or airport security, turn on your Ujjayi breath.  At the very least, the person behind you might find it odd and give you some space.

Namaste ~e

Kapalabhati

Rise and shine ~ with a shiny skull!  NY pharmacist sharing her love for yoga here at 4:30am pacific standard time. 

Doing my kapalabhati, I wonder why it's called shining skull.... 

Inhale through the nose for a full deep breath. 
Pumping out on the exhale through the nose for 50 fast, furious breaths from the lower belly. 
Short abdominal contractions to exhale out a gnat in one's nostrils. 
50 short ones for one minute. 

Of course the pharmacist in me had to understand the mechanism of action in which this pranayama causes skull brightening.  Turns out, it shines the skull because cranial sinuses are facilitated during the exercise.  These canals that run through the dura transport blood and the CSF (cerebrospinal fluid)
away from the brain. 

Daily toxins leave the nooks and crannies of our noggins.  Leaving us with whiter, brighter skulls.

Namaste

Seeing Forrest

6 months ago, I thought Forrest Yoga was a movement born from the hippy-dippy tree hugging culture, possibly involving a lot of tree poses.  I got turned onto this style thanks to my German-born instructor, Anke.  (I even thought it could have been a type of yoga started out in the Black Forrest).

Well, thanks to Google and Anke's amazing teaching, I finally took my interest one step further and explored it on the web.  Alright, it was named after the creatrix herself  - Ana Forrest.

I read her book - Fierce Medicine - and was completely blown away.  Being a pharmacist, anything with the word "medicine" holds my ADD-riddled "modern" mind.  Being a new yorker and of a certain temperament, the word "fierce" preceding "medicine" will definitely seal the deal.

What is Ana like?  My initial impression after barely a week with her is a mixed bag - and so it should be with dynamic personalities.  She is not boring.  Yet, she is not flighty or flaky.

There are times I find myself wondering how the heck I'm finding pleasure (pleasure was yesterday's morning lesson) waking up before dawn to take a yoga intensive from 6 to 9am every flipping day - weekends included.  And then she'll say something so off-kilter, I'll find my pleasure howling with laughter.

Let me illustrate her sense of humor.  There's an exercise in which students are identified and grouped according to numbers.  The instruction was something like this, "As we go around the room, say your number from one to three."

Well, the way the students were spouting off numbers was just horrible in tone, pitch, etc... I'm one of those ultra - sensitive types that can't stand horrible voices.  A man would be better off bald and fat than have a bad voice.

And what is really a turnoff is a yoga instructor who walks in and starts talking with flat affect in her own voice.  We have one at the gym who has such a lame voice,  I stopped going to her class.  "Is she happy to be here?" I 'd wonder.  "Maybe her true calling is to be a postal worker?.."  If I no longer attend a yoga class, it's mostly because I can't stand the voice.

So we trainees are spouting off "1, 2, 3..." etc.  The noises that were being uttered would make the lowings of a cow sound like Mozart.  Ana interrupts and starts to go into a well-served tirade about being responsible for our own voices - especially those of teachers.  (I remember slipping out of a professor's class during 7am Pharmacology.  I will buy the notes that will be sold after the class, I thought.  There is no way I want to hear her grating voice 7 in the morning).

Ana explains how she is weary of these low vibrations in our voices.  Her final word on the matter:  "Just stop putting that sh*t out into the world."  I died laughing.

Wellville ~ The Eternal Quest

This past month, I have been happily MIA doing a health retreat.  Health reform is very much in my blood, thanks to two generations of Seventh-Day Adventists in the family.

For the record, I do not subscribe to any particular denomination.  I am merely grateful for the guidance it proffered me during my more formative years; I will be the last person crooning Gimmee That Ol' Time Religion.

The SDA heritage comes with ties to the Battle Creek Sanitarium.  For most who are not in the know about the beginnings of Dr. Kellogg and the Sanitarium,  I would recommend watching a movie with Matthew Broderick called The Road to Welville.   I made a note to go to a theater to watch it when it came out in the 90's but never got around to it.  My reasoning, I guess, was along the lines of why watch it when I'd lived it?.. and would live it intermittently, all throughout my life.

Engaging in health retreats, is not so much out of obligation, tradition, etc., but more out of comfort and pleasure for me.  Pleasure is based on past experiences.  And one of my favorite recollections as a child was watching my grandmother put out her trays of wheatgrass by the bay window in our living room.  This was the early 80's.

When I became an adult, a health retreat became more enjoyable to me than luxury resorts, clubs, lounges, bars, and decadent food.  While other mother-daughter types bonded during facials and shopping sprees, mom and I bonded over colonics, rebounders, and dehydrated snacks that looked very much like Kibbles 'n Bits.

It's a bit odd for many to understand this predilection so I really have no one to take with me on these retreats.  Colonics are not featured on a vacation cruise.  A wheatgrass implant is not well-received in exclusive spas, but it's just my cup of tea.

These retreat centers are certainly not a place to meet men.  The guys you meet here will be sort of weird - kind of like the treatments and the food.  But the guests - men and women alike - are mostly single.  Here, it's a different sort of "Club Med."  It doesn't stand for "Club Méditerranée."   It's more like "Club Medical" to address all sorts of afflictions - physical, spiritual, emotional, real or imagined.

Socially, it was a mix of Calistoga, Esalen, and summer camp.  It would've been a bit Big Love too if this kahuna poseur could have kept up his game with all the little hens.  You could fool some people some of the time but you can't fool girls from the Big Apple... We can spot a worm by the way he wriggles with his words.

Of course these health retreats existed much earlier in human history - long before even the word "sanitarium" came to be.  The formidable La Paiva, herself, had gone to a wellness center before the adoring husband pickled her dead body in a glass jar.  Now that's undying love and devotion.

I am also certain Madame Pompadour entered health retreats and ate weird foods to compete with the ever changing new flocks of nubile young things in the court of Louis XV. 

Who am I competing with?  The younger version of myself, perhaps.  The girl that never thought she'd reach middle age.

Happy Valentine's  ~e

The Cheese Stands Alone

It came to mind that if it wasn't for the cheese, the farmer in the Dell could never have taken a wife.

See, the mouse takes the cheese, the cat takes the mouse, the dog takes the cat, the kid takes the dog, the nurse takes the kid, the wife takes the nurse, and the farmer takes the wife.  We see the evolution of a dairy farm here.  Yes, Heigh-ho, the dairy-o!, the cheese stands alone.  It is the end and the beginning.

As cheese is the Source, it is my deep interest and pleasure to make sure the curds come from the milk of well-treated cows.  That - and I simply love nibbling on a good piece of fromage.

"How do we really know these cows are happy?"  This was what I did on my spare time in San Diego.  Yes, you take a girl out of New York City and she drives people crazy in all other parts of the country.

I was asking the poor man at Jimbo's if raw dairy products from Happy Cows truly came from happy cows.  "Have you ever gone to the farm to see how happy they are?"

"And what is the gold standard on surveys for bovine happiness?  Do they say Moooo once for content and twice for very happy?"  The employee was good-natured and affirmed the dairy engaged in best practices.

A friend visiting from NY thought I was nuts for shopping at Jimbo's (forget even mentioning raw dairy back then).  The prices were a bit higher than at Vons, Trader Joe's, etc.

"Hey, if you're going to Bimbo's, would you please get me an avocado?" was one of the endless stabs at my favorite market in Del Mar.

The reason why I loved Jimbo's and Happy Cows during my Cali days was that they gave consumers the power of choice.  This is the beauty of California.  It's not so paternal in governing our way of eating.

But thank goodness, Hotel Cali-farmia doesn't hold a monopoly on lovely places and lovely faces.  Welcome to Vermont by way of Bardwell Farm.   And meet Kelly, Bardwell's remarkable cheesemonger.

Lovely and so gracious.  She will stop cutting the cheese, offer a sample to a curious stranger, and smile. This is the holy trinity of good foods:  passion, competence, and care.

So why do we want raw cheese?  The enzymes are intact - for digestion.  There are many people who are short on dairy enzymes, but many of us love cheese.   At this time of the year, we'd like to indulge a bit.  So, for the holidays, consider raw cheeses - consider Bardwell Farm.

What makes good cheese?  Good milk, of course.  Here are some qualities to consider in making good milk:

Certified Organic
No Antibiotics
Heritage
Rbst-free
Range-raised
Hormone-free
Pasture-raised
Family farmed

What makes a good cheese raw?  Raw milk, conscientiously collected - with the qualities listed above - is treated at 90 to 95 degrees Fahrenheit to create the curds.  These curds are then aged anywhere between 2 to 18 months at 50 degrees Fahrenheit.

Rupert, the raw Alpine is delicious.  I just can't get over it.  It's perfect for holiday events.  Just cut it up and offer with marcona almonds and dried fruit.  Then watch your guests get happy - just like the cows at Bardwell Farm.

The Post-90: Gluten-Free Bialys

I ran into a friend at the gym.  She was kicking a habit she no longer felt served her. "I'm at Day 56."


"Wait, didn't they say it was 21 days to lose a habit?  Now they've upped it to 56?!"  I'm always the last one to receive the memo.

"Actually, it's been increased to 90 days.  They say it takes 90 days for us to see something differently."

They say.  They say.  I guess one ought to really do than accept what they say sometimes.  So what did I do in terms of giving up things?  I'd given up TV over a year ago.  Or maybe it's been two.  Now,  I don't miss it.  My approach to passive viewing has changed.  I derive much more pleasure from TV because it's occasional, conscious, and more social.  I have to watch it at other people's homes.

And the same thing seems to apply to food.  I believe it's been over 90 days since I had a bialy or a bagel.  My long work commute had ended and there was no routine to go into Grand Central to grab one. 

And living in an area with no deli to roll out of bed to (if you're in the 60's between Mad and Fifth, you know what I mean), getting a morning bagel or bialy takes focus and planning.  I need to channel my morning focus for other things so bagel/bialy fell out of routine.

So how did I find myself approaching the bialy differently after 90 days?  I wanted to make a homemade bialy.  I upped the ante.  I wanted it homemade and gluten-free.

I don't have Celiac's but seeing a friend not be able to eat a baked good because it wasn't gluten-free made me realize this holiday baking would have to include GF items to my sleeve of tricks.  It just seems to be necessary to stay relevant in the kitchen.

An amazing find was Bob's Red Mill Xanthan Gum.  Plant-derived, it replaces gluten's job of giving a dough its elasticity and rise.  

Loving the onions in the middle of the bialy, I decided to raise the bar again and make it an onion/potato/leek bialy with mango chutney.  Hot out of the oven, I took a bite and I don't think I'll ever be the same again.  It was that good.  It was worth the 90 days of doing without.

The Post-90  Gluten-Free Bialy Recipe

You will need:

6 three-inch diameter tartlet pans  (can be found at Williams - Sonoma)

1 cup of Bob's Red Mill Gluten Free (wheat free, dairy free) All Purpose Baking Flour 

2 teaspoons of  Bob's Red Mill Xanthan Gum

1 teaspoon of Aluminum-free baking powder (can be had at Whole Foods)

1 cup of lukewarm water

2 tablespoons of olive oil (and a little more for greasing the tartlet pans)

1/2 an Idaho potato

1/2 cup of chopped leeks (some from the base and some from the top)

1/4 cup of chopped onions

2 cloves of garlic

olive oil - q.s. (quantity sufficient) to sauté the vegetables

Himalayan pink salt - q.s. to make it tasty but not salty

optional - a little mango chutney to dab on your bialy

Instructions:

1)  Chop up the potato, leeks, onions, and garlic.  If you have a mandolin slicer with a wide tooth, it's easier to run the potato through it as if you were making latkes.  I prefer to smash my garlic through a press.  But you can easily get by without these gadgets if you just stick to chopping finely.

2)  Sauté the vegetables with olive oil until the onions become translucent.

3)  Put the flour, the xanthan gum, the baking powder, lukewarm water, and 2 tablespoons of olive oil into a Vitamix.  Turn the dial slowly to 10 and keep it there until you feel resistance from the blades.  There should be a small, smooth ball if you look into your Vitamix.  If not, set the dial back to zero and swish around the lumpy things with the tamper and turn the dial back up.  The end result of Vitamix effort should look like this:

 

The dough feels a little gummy.  And that's okay.  It's supposed to feel gummy.

4)  Pre-heat the oven to 400 degrees Fahrenheit.

5)  Grease the tartlet pans with olive oil.

6)  Using a spatula, fill and spread the gummy paste of dough into the tartlet pans.  If the tartlet pans look like the outer paper mold of a large Reese's Peanut Butter Cup, fill and smooth the dough so that the top of the paste looks as even as the top of the chocolate cup confection.

7)  Add a little bit of the potato / leek mix in the middle of each "tart".

8)  Bake for 25 minutes.

9)  They will rise like popovers but once out of the oven, they will fall again.  Out of the oven and a bit cooled, they are ready to flip out of the pans.  Using a metal spatula or a knife, gently separate the bread from the edges of the tartlet pans.  Turn it upside down and have the bialy gently fall off.

10)  Dab a bit of mango chutney onto the center and you have an incredible bialy.  This is fabulous. 

And what was more fabulous was how easily I digested this bialy.  This is the bialy that'll love you back.

Happy Post-90! ~e

Life is a Tabaré

There are so many undiscovered food places in Brooklyn, I feel like Ferdinand Magellan when I'm in this borough.  The natives are friendly so I just hop on a train and ask one where I should eat.

"Go to Tabaré.  It's a Uruguayan place."

"What should I order?"

"The empanadas."

Really?  I wasn't too keen on this local's advice.  The last time I had an empanada, my stomach felt like there were sandbags inside.  From then on, I dismissed empanadas as gut-bombs.  Every culture seems to have one.

In Korean tradition, one would have super glutinous rice cakes piled high on festive occasions.  One piece of rice cake is probably equivalent to 10 compressed bowls of rice.  Unless your stomach is made of iron, you will suffer.  This is one tradition from my heritage I'm not sure I'd keep.  

In Lebanese culture, there is the fried lamb kibbe.  A friend's aunt who is Lebanese kept insisting I eat her lamb kibbe.  To be polite while trying to catch a flight, I slammed that kibbe and regretted it soon after.  On the plane, I thought about pulling out the oxygen mask.

And then there was my first empanada.  It was at a potluck years ago at work.  A colleague urged me to try it.  The pastry looked thick.  Not wanting to offend, I ate it and almost died.
 
I asked the local, "Can you recommend anything else?"

"No.  Get the empanadas."

Something in his tone was quite compelling.  So I went to Tabaré and ordered what I'd silently used to refer to as the Hot-Pockets of Death.  Empanadas caseras.  Caseras, que sera.  Let's hope for the best.

I took a bite and it was so divine, I was smitten.  I never even thought to take photos of them.    There are no empanada photos to share.  Nada.  So you will have to go there to see these light purses of gold nuggets for yourself.  Order the caramelized onions, gruyere, & fontina cheese empanada if you are somewhat vegetarian.  If you're an omnivore, make sure to have the free-range chicken empanada in the mix. 

Unbelievably light and airy.   I was lost in enjoying these empanadas.   I even want to learn how to make them!  And perhaps this will have me re-examine the whole rice cake / kibbe situation.  Maybe there are better ways to make them...

Anyway, I dipped these empanadas caseras into a chimichurri that blew all chimichurris out of the water.  Actually, all of Tabaré's dipping sauces and herbed oils were sensational.  I told Bruno (co-owner), if they bottled their condiments, I would stock up on the chimichurri.  He said I wasn't the only one who's told him this.

Here was something else that is a must-try.  The hostess brought over a complimentary dessert.  It was flan.  I like flan but the last time I had one was years ago - the one packaged in Goya.

Goya's is good.  But it's Tabaré's twist on the flan that will have you gasp, "Oh boy-a."  This was an incredible dessert.  I usually don't take dessert because I rarely like to end a fabulous meal with something sweet, especially if it's dry like pies, cakes, or cookies.  But I would have cried if I'd missed out on this one.  It was topped with bitter coffee or espresso.  So each bite was moist, just the right sweet, with bitter, and silky.  Heaven.

If I'm not mistaken, Tabaré was named in honor of Tabaré Aguerre.  An agronomist, he is Uruguay's Minister of Stockbreeding, Agriculture, and Fisheries. 

I am pretty sure he is the Tabaré who inspired the place from reading a bit of their philosophy on the menu.  The namesake restaurant supports sustainable fishing practices.  It acknowledges our responsibility in animal stewardship.  The restaurant also believes good food comes from strong relationships with their suppliers.  "We like to know where our food comes from - farmers, ranchers, artisans."

The ambience is just as perfect.  There is a very relaxed, cozy vibe.  Dimly lit with great music (perfect volume) from all parts of South America, it is really a cozy place to go alone or with a date.  I was utterly content to eat my empanadas with a glass of Malbec and listen to the music.

The hostess, Lorena, adds a great deal of personality to the place.  Her stunning beauty is matched with a very charming, gracious, and easygoing manner.  If reincarnation is possible in this world, I'd love to come back as a beautiful Latina from South America. 

Tabaré Co-owner Bruno (left) and Hostess Lorena (right)

Tabaré Restaurant

221 South 1st Street

Brooklyn, NY 11211

ph: 347.335.0187

Advanced Banana

Back in September, an imessage came in from a friend in Holland telling me to go see Advanced Style.

I looked up the movie listings and saw that it was at Quad Cinema (my old neighborhood).  Living now on the UES, the West Village seems like another state.  I'll get around to it I thought, and put it off.  When I finally found the time, the only place it was playing in was Floral Park. If the WV was another state, Floral Park was another country.

And to make matters more complex, it was the last day before Advanced Style was to advance on to Massachusetts.  Yes, I could have gotten the DVD but this film seemed too important not to watch in cinema for the first time.  So I googled how to take a bus from 57th and Mad all the way to Floral Park.

I hadn't taken an MTA bus in years.  As a teen, I'd witnessed such an unpleasant exchange between a bus driver and a girl my age, that I later preferred subways, railroads, and taxis.  She boarded and asked him what time it was.  He was astonishingly surly and snapped that drivers weren't allowed to talk to passengers.  Yes, I'd seen Ralph Kramden as a child, but his misanthrope ways were confined to the television screen.

Well, the girl - before hopping off the bus - told him to "go get a life."  And he yelled, "go get a watch!"  Had I been older, I would have roared with laughter.  But back then, I was very sheltered and the event left me with a phobia.  The omnibus is ominous.  The omnibus is ominous.

With a copy of my mass transit directions, printed and stapled (incorrigible nerd), I waited nervously at the bus stop.  I would have been more at ease waiting for a flight to Italy than this.

If I could affect a foreign accent, I would pass off as a tourist and be free to ask the most ridiculous questions without embarrassment...Is this the correct side of the street to stand going outbound?  Does the bus make every stop?  And what if I don't have enough for the fare on my Metrocard?  I only have cash.  Wait, I have a silver dollar.  Can you take a look at this coin - is it a dollar?  Will that fit in the coin slot?  The girl standing in front of me answered all my tedious inquiries with so much kindness, I was touched.

My stop was "Little Neck Pkwy / Grand Central Pkwy".  It just didn't seem right when I read the walking part of the directions.  But I figured if Hotstop dot com tells me it's my stop, it has to be okay.

Well, it wasn't okay.  Especially in the dark.  I put on my google GPS navigator and started walking along what seemed like a service road with tall hedges on the right.  Perfect opening scene for a tragic, heavy, and dramatic NBC Monday night special from the 80's.  (You know, M.A.D.D.: The Cindy Lightner Story, The Burning Bed, etc).  Mondays are bad enough.  I never understood why they aired them on that night of the week.

Looking at the moving GPS dot, I realized I'd somehow passed the path to the right.  Of course I did. It was a locked service gate to a hamlet / golf course.  Trying to go around the compound would further jeopardize my personal safety as well as arriving on time.  So I decided to climb over the 10-ft gate in my Prada high-riders.

Abduction on a service road vs. scrapes from fence-climbing was a no-brainer.  Like a jewelry sleuth, I did remarkably well.  One heel on the lock, hoist self up, swing one leg over at a time, and crawl like Spider-Man.

Further along, I asked a security guard where the theater was.  I hoped he hadn't seen me climb over the gate.  He guided me to an elevator and I went underground to find the biggest joke waiting for me.  After this extraordinary sojourn, the projection man leads me to a sign that read something like this: "We will not be showing the last movie if there are less than 5 people." The sign might just as well have said:  "It's not about the movie.  It's all about the journey to the movie you won't get to see."

"I'm sorry.  You're the only one here for this.  Why don't you just go in there to see the ending of A Trip to Italy?"

This was truly a Seinfeldian moment.  "No, no, no.  I did not come here to see A Trip to Italy.  I just did A Trip to Floral Park on a bus from 57th and Madison.   I need to see Advanced Style.  Please.  I'll run the projector.  I'll lock up after it's over.  Anything.  Please."

"Well you'll miss the last express bus back to Manhattan.  How will you get home?"

"I don't know.  I'll figure something out."  He let me watch the film. 

this was my day's quest

It was one of the most amazing documentaries I'd ever seen.  Based on Ari Seth Cohen's homage to New York's stylish older women, it brought up so many wonderful things about being a woman in her 60s, her 70s, her 80, 90s, and so on.  Instead of being placed in ads for Boniva in AARP,  these women are finally taking to the stage of style, front and center.   Be it a face for Lanvin (Apollo Dance Theater Legend Jacquie Murdock), Karen Walker or Vogue, the possibilities seemed to be infinite for these icons who are opening our eyes about a set of demographics grossly under-represented.

The one I took to immediately was Ilona Smithkin.  I love her voice and how she cut her hair to make a matching set of eyelashes.  How she felt content to just be.  At 91, she said it best about living in the present and not thinking too much about the future.  "I just don't buy green bananas anymore." 

It made me laugh because it's so true.  Even as a non-nonagenarian, while you may look and plan ahead for some things in life, you should never buy very unripe bananas.

Who has time to wait around for green bananas?  It's not so much the ironic possibility of dying before they ripen.

The real tragedy lies in buying premature bananas, having them stare at you, and eating them before it's time.  Because nothing is worse to the palate than a stiff banana with its dry, astringent, pasty taste lingering in your mouth.

And they shouldn't be just yellow either.  They should be speckled, mottled, and moled with beautiful brown age spots.  Like people, bananas get better with age.

So how did I get back to Manhattan?  Someone who watched A Trip to Italy was so intrigued I had made this sojourn to see a movie, he decided to watch it as well.  So in the end, I wasn't the only one.  He offered a ride on his motorcycle - with an extra helmet of course - to Jamaica Station.  Normally, I would have declined.  But I felt somewhat transformed by the film.  One could live up to a hundred and it would still feel like a blink of an eye.  That, and he seemed rather safe.

Zipping along the L.I.E on a motorcycle for the first time, I thought, "This is my life.  And I am so thrilled living it to the fullest.  At least for today." 

Man fully alive is the glory of God    ~St. Irenaeus

Red Red Wren

Another lifetime ago I was with Voice-Over Guy.  We met at a UB40 concert in Irving Plaza.  Between "Red Red Wine" and the noisy crowd, all I heard him say was "voice-over" in describing his occupation.  And the rest that flowed out of his mouth was a river of velvety Bordeaux.  

Months into dating him, I realized he was actually a voice-over engineer.  But with his lovely warble, he could have easily been a voice-over actor.

He was a redhead and I was surprised at the chemistry.  Let's call him Red.  Red was the first and so far, the only person who has made me believe that Howard Roark (The Fountainhead) could be a redhead.  Gary Cooper doesn't count.  Even if they did dye his hair, the film was black and white.

Red had a best friend who was also a carrot top.  I'll refer to him as Rusty since his hair was well... more rust in shade.  And Rusty had a partner I'll call Wren.  They had a brownstone in Brooklyn and a newly purchased country home in Connecticut.  That Fall, when the leaves were ablaze in all shades of red, Rusty invited us out to their bucolic haven for the weekend. 

It was just before sunset.  Outside, Red and Rusty were having cocktails and cracking more inside jokes than I cared for.  I left and went back into the house.  The sole entrance being the kitchen, it was easy to catch Wren making dinner.  He was a House Wren. 

So fastidious was his attention to the meal prep, I perched on a wooden stool to look on.  He periodically referred to a tome of a cookbook propped on a counter stand to make his fabulous quinoa.  This was long before gluten-free became a household name.

When he gave me a taste, it was so divine, I knew I had to add it to my grain repertoire.  And it has never failed to delight and provide quick solutions in entertaining.

So today, I share with you this recipe.  It is easy and elegant.  Compatible with anything - fish, poultry, meat, tempeh...  And because quinoa is a complete source of protein, it is just as perfect going solo.  A complete source means it has all 9 essential amino acids.  Essential, because our body cannot produce these building blocks for protein. 

Whether you're a meticulous little house wren or just a rusty old bird in the kitchen, you will love this quinoa.

Wren Quinoa, the Recipe

You will need:

1 cup of quinoa

2 cups of water

1/4 cup of roughly chopped cilantro

1/3 cup of roughly chopped salted pistachios

1/3 cup of roughly chopped dried cranberries

A small drizzle of olive oil

Instructions:

1)  Pour the quinoa and water into a 1¹/₂ quart saucepan.

2)  Bring to a boil.  Then lowering the heat to simmer, place the lid on the saucepan and cook for about 15 minutes - or until all the water is absorbed.  The quinoa should look fluffy with little tails.

3)  Add the chopped pistachios and dried cranberries.

4)  Drizzle just enough olive oil and toss so that there is a glistening effect.  We do not want to drench this beautiful mixture in oil. 

5)  Add the cilantro and toss once more.

Servings: 2

Enjoy! ~e

Zucchini Gets Inspiralized

Passing through the post office, I spied a neighbor of mine.  His face was unusually shiny and radiating youth.

"Paul,  you are positively glowing.  What have you done with yourself?"

He smiled and said he'd been eating raw zucchini "pasta".  He had purchased a spiralizer and made all the raw, vegan "spaghetti" with olive oil and garlic because the commercial ones were just too costly.  And he was quite happy as he found himself losing some weight in the process.

A solution came to mind.  I knew what to do with all that zucchini in my dad's garden.  They always grow so abundantly and it's almost as if one can't eat them fast enough.   

a real beauty

I congratulated him on his new program and made my way to Williams - Sonoma to buy my own.  I mused how this thing that used to be such an odd item made its way to mainstream cookery - or uncookery, shall I call it.  When beauty is at stake, raw cuisine is the prescription.

The Paderno Spiralizer was light and easy to assemble.  Minutes, later, I was cranking out the squash noodles.

And it was quite fun, seeing how long and wavy this angel's hair was flowing through the blade.  I hadn't had this much fun since my Play-Doh Factory days.

Now I needed to dress my "pasta".  Pesto was on my mind.  I went to a 24-hr deli to look for fresh basil.  No basil.  They were out.  How could they be out of basil?  I could have easily dropped the project but being a bit ambitious, I started to look for an alternative.

Arugula made eye contact.  I love greens who are bold and direct.  Arugula will be in my pesto.  Arugula also makes for a good aphrodisiac.  According to a cab driver from Cairo, some Egyptians would sleep with a bunch of Arugula under the pillows.

I pulled out the mini KitchenAid and whipped up a recipe for Arugula Pesto.

You will need:

1 bunch of Arugula (a small handful is fine)
juice from 1 whole lemon
2 cloves of garlic, pressed
1/3 cup of pine nuts
1/3 cup of cold-pressed olive oil
1/3 cup of filtered water
1 teaspoon of fermented bean paste (miso)

Now, a word about the miso.  One of my favorites is South River's Sweet White.  It is creamy and not as overpowering as the other brands.  If I were to make a cheese analogy, the Sweet White is the brie of miso.  I want creamy here because the Arugula is sharp already.

Sweet White is made with organic brown rice, organic soybeans, sun-dried sea salt, organic sea vegetables, and koji culture.  There is no gluten ingredient in this product.   It is also unpasteurized so I am keeping in form with the rigors of raw cuisine.  Excellent.  I am delighted when I find myself consistent on occasion.

Now, throw and mix all these ingredients into the mini KitchenAid.

So whiz, whiz, whiz, until you are sure there will be no Arugula piece big enough to get stuck in between your teeth.  If you're looking to get social with this dinner, that smile with greens wedged between your central incisors just might ruin the moment.  Don't ruin the moment.

And don't worry about the garlic.  He'll have some, you'll have some - it's okay.  Garlic is also an aphrodisiac.  Tibetan monks were not allowed to eat them because they made them a little too excited for monastic living.  Gosh, with everyone doing a lifestyle magazine these days, I wouldn't be too surprised if there was one called Monastic Living.

But back to the pesto... The mixture should have this sort of smooth consistency.

Go ahead.  Stick your finger in there (after you pull out the electrical cord) and try a taste.  I don't add salt because there is sea salt in the miso paste.  And the acidity from the lemon juice makes one think it's saltier than it is.  But if you'd like, do add a pinch of Himalayan pink salt to suit your taste.

Not only is this stuff gorgeous, it will, in turn, make you gorgeous.  This is a good way to hydrate the skin (after Summer, your body is badly in need of rehydrating - note the lack of turgor in the bonier parts of your flesh).  The zucchini also has a lot of collagen which aids in rebuilding skin - elasticity, tone, texture.  Hence, my neighbor's glow.

It's full of Vitamins A and C to keep your hair shiny and the hair follicles strong.  Not many know this, but it has a vitamin that is infused in some shampoos -  Pantothenic Acid.  This is extremely important to ward off hair loss.  Known as Vitamin B5, it is also essential for reducing stress.

In community pharmacy, I'd once had a patient walk in and tell me she would never work in the fashion industry again because the stress caused her to lose her hair.  So if you are losing an inexplicable amount of hair and attribute it to stress - this may likely be the truth.  Either find a way to manage the stress - or avoid it altogether - or eat a ton of zucchini.

In addition to Vitamin B5, the zucchini, on the whole, provides a good B-complex profile (B1, B2, B3, B6) to regulate sugar metabolism.  Highly recommended for those with Diabetes Type II.

So make the best of Autumn's harvest and get inspiralized with zucchini spaghetti.  Truly, it's the Pasta Courgette you won't ever regret. ~e

Tomato Kisses

                                                   
Eating a tomato is a bit like kissing.   There's quite a variety.  And this year's crop had no misses.  They were all pretty good.

Some were eager at the start like the Earlirouge.  Ready and willing for snogging season to begin, these guys nearly burst with anticipation.

Then there's the quick brush from a discreet Plum.  No fool for public displays of affection, this tomato maintains a prim and proper peck.  But don't let his sense of decorum mislead you.  Skewered on the grill, he smooches irresistibly!

 
Looking for an unmistakable wild streak?   Try a lip-lock with the Zebra.  Could he ever change his untamed ways?  Maybe.  But I ask, Why?  A mouthful of his salty, tangy, crazy goodness, and you would agree those stripes were well-earned.

Care for something a little more responsible?   One can surely find peace of mind from the Mortgage Lifter.   His kiss is a seal of trust.

Sounds too heavy?  Then blow air kisses with Baby Tomatillos.  They're light, fun, and full of caprice.  Just tiny bubbles of bliss to keep your cares at bay.

But be careful, they just might lead you to the racy, wet ones from Beefsteak Country.  The kind you get early September nights on a prairie.  Or in the back of Back Forty.

Beefsteak Heirlooms from Back Forty, NYC

So get those lips ready.  Nightshades have never been more alluring. ~e

Super Swami Pizza Love

It was time for Constance to see Super Swami. "Bring your Heart Vibration Scores," said the guru.  Constance faithfully slid them into her briefcase - along with a copy of her financial statement.  This document was not to be reviewed with Swami.  Its presence served like a string around one's pinky.  A post-it reminder for, "Don't forget to be solvent - and soon."

Constance had quit her job to obey her inner voice.  But today, she started to worry more about the state of her financial health than that of her heart.  She saw Swami at the top of the hill and quickly slid the bank statement back into her briefcase.

"Come, we must look for a tree to sit under."  Constance scanned tree after tree in true Goldilocks fashion.  This tree is too skinny.  This tree is too ugly.  This tree is surrounded by filth.  

And this tree with the rest of this seedy little park, is filled with nothing but eyesores.  Constance sighed.  Why Swami chose to live in this neighborhood - when she had a growing clientele of highly paid, utterly dissatisfied urban professionals - was beyond her.

Swami wasn't so picky and settled under a firm oak.  Constance randomly picked a meditation.  It was on Love.  As it would, she mused.  Her heart scored the lowest in the Love Category.  This, on top of her money concerns, could pose much distraction.

"Here, put this over your eyes," Swami pulled out two tattered pairs of eye masks embossed with a Virgin Airways logo.  Cross-legged, eye shades drawn, both meditated for 5 minutes.  It ended with a Buddha bowl's ding or Deepak Chopra's voice.  Constance couldn't remember which one after opening her eyes.  Swami looked at her expectantly, "Well, what image came up for you during this love meditation."

Constance was hesitant.  "Nothing.  Nothing other than I was hungry.  When I closed my eyes, I felt ravenous.  I mean I could devour a horse.  Perhaps, Swami, my new love will arrive on a horse."

"Stop such nonsense," Swami snapped.  "No one is coming on a horse.  Your hunger came up because you have been starving for love."

Constance wasn't impressed.  Swami continued, "People who starve for love are afraid to be seen as they are.  Why do you not show yourself as you are?" she demanded.

"How could I possibly show myself as I am without edit...to...everyone?  Imagine, the very idea!  There are risks, you know."

"And they would be?"

"There are so many unseemly things that we all should take great pains to conceal.  Without this, well, people might not care for the package and walk away."

"So you are merely a package... and what's inside, some disposable product?  The outside with the right claims and clever design like one of those brands you peddle?  And how does your inner self feel about this?"

"Oh, Swami, my inner self is never to be seen."

"Then you will never feel loved.  You do not find it, so you cannot give it.  The greatest thing in this life is to love and be loved.  You have denied yourself this by denying the desires of your heart.  When you must choose, do not think what you should do, do what your heart desires.  What is it that you want?"

Swami gravely pulled out her clarity stones.  "This is a source of great detriment to your happiness and success.  I will give you a key to tune up this energy field in your heart."

She motioned for Constance to place these colored pebbles to her head and heart.  Then she chanted a mantra to operate from a place of love.  That this would ensure the universe to sort things out for her higher good. 

"Alright, you do this exercise on your own, I need to call another client."

"Swami, I'm still famished.  Is there anything to eat around here?"

"There's a pizzeria down the hill.  It'll be a quick call," she pulled out her Blackberry.

Feeling somewhat disoriented, Constance made her descent towards a deserted, seedy looking street.  Why doesn't Swami just move to Manhattan, she wondered.

The pizza sounded delicious, but Constance feared it would ruin her no wheat, no dairy, all raw, just plant food diet.  It was her All-Restrictions-Systems-in-Place for times of great fear and uncertainties in her life.

But her inner voice - the one wanting love - gently reminded, "Swami said choose what your heart desires."

Constance was relieved for this voice and walked right into the pizzeria.  She inhaled the aromas with gusto.  Rows and rows of pie, each one made her mouth water.

A ridiculously cheerful man behind the counter asked what he could bring.  So strangely happy for such plebeian food, location, traffic... She shrugged it off and opened up to his bright presence.  Constance rather enjoyed herself.  She smiled while trying to decide between the lemonade and iced-tea.  It had been another white-hot summer day.

This bizarre ambassador of pizza went out of his way to fill her cup with half lemonade and half iced-tea.  All worries on lack, lack, lack, uncertainty, and the weight of the world on her birdlike shoulders melted away.  Constance laughed at all his silly lovely gestures.

In anticipation of a feast, she ordered not one tiny piece as she would, but two of the largest slices.  The man could not have been more enthusiastic in his service.  Constance mused, who is this person - this pizza giver.  She imagined him announcing he was Michael, the Archangel of Heavenly Pies.

He swiftly took the slices out of the oven and wrapped them up with great care.  Constance smiled in gratitude.  Pizza angel said it was one of the most beautiful smiles he had ever seen as she glided out the door.

"Oh, can I have a piece!" shrieked a hapless woman on the street.  "Yes, yes, here you go."  Constance was without her usual display of repulsion for such occasions.

Back to the top of the hill, Swami was still on her call.  Constance took another bite while watching the sun start to set.  She sat and chewed leisurely, until she made a realization.  The lemonade/iced-tea, the whole communion of garlic, extra cheese, tomato sauce, spinach, mushrooms, and much much oregano - they had not been paid for.

In that short beatific trance at the pizzeria, there was no accounting of any kind.  At a time when she would have been acutely aware of money - bank statement burning in her briefcase - Constance hadn't thought of pulling out her wallet.  And the man hadn't thought of ringing up his register.  She couldn't even recall feeling for a Mastercard.  The whole exchange failed in epic proportions as a mercantile encounter.

Swami, finished with her call, sat by her side.  Constance offered what was left of the last slice.  Then she revealed what took place.  Swami nodded, "The guided meditation on love not only led you to feed your stomach but also your heart."

Be open to the gestures of love and you begin to taste the food of the gods. ~e