Happy Thanksgiving Days

By now you have no doubt read (or deliberately not read) numerous articles instructing you how not to overeat on Thanksgiving this year.  

While I realize that failure to exercise self-control is a common issue, my own dietary quandary stems from a different problem: Fear of Good Foods Going Bad.  

The trouble begins the weekend before, when I refrain from engaging in my usual grocery-shopping spree, instead purchasing only those items required to cook my contributions to the holiday meal, as well as a few essentials. There’s no point, I reason, in cooking anything that will create leftovers, since we’re going to be eating away from home for two days (what, you’ve never heard of the traditional Black Friday Lasagna Feast?) and absconding with as much grub as we can fit into our collection of knock-off Tupperware.*  

Monday officially kicks off Foraging Days, when we whip up dinners like this:

Three slices turkey wrapped around a string cheese

Two sandwich-stacker pickles, stacked

One clementine of indeterminate age

One tortilla, half-smothered in Nutella, folded

Five French fries

Diet Coke, with a lemon wedge for a touch of class 

The beautiful part of all this, of course, is the ability to consume whatever I please on Thanksgiving Day itself, guilt free. Five kinds of pie! Two types of cranberry sauce! A turkey made out of Italian bread! And it all seems PERFECTLY NORMAL.  

The weekend after the holiday isn’t any less strange. There comes a point on Sunday when I realize that I’ve had my five servings of veggies, but four of them have been green beans, and somehow it’s gradually become acceptable to end every meal with pie. But I couldn't possibly go to the store, because there’s hardly any free space in the fridge. 

The point is, I can’t help you restrain yourself on Thanksgiving—you’ll have to watch the last hour of the Today Show for that. But if you want advice on turning a one-day holiday into a week of oddball eating, I’m your woman. And that’s a gift for which I’m supremely thankful.  

*Thanks, Mom.

If at First You Don't Succeed...

"Failure is the condiment which gives success its flavor."--Truman Capote

When life gives you soggy cornbread...

Blech.

...pan-fry the hell out of it.

They taste much better than they look. Really.



I'm Back!

I'd planned on posting frequently this summer. But then the monkey jumped onto my back.

No really, it did:

This happened, too:

And this:

Clockwise from bottom left: grilled stingray, chili crab soup, Singaporean carrot cake, bok choy. Not pictured: chicken and beef satay and Tiger beer.

So the next few posts will be a look back at last month's adventures in Hong Kong, Singapore and Bali.

In the meantime, I have some cheddar cornbread to check on. And by "check on," I mean "devour."  

In the Pink

The Race: The inaugural Queen of the Hill Women's Triathlon, Mullica Hill, NJ
The Distances: 1/4 mile swim, 10 mile bike, 5k run
Best quote from an official: "You ladies all know how to swim, right?"

You might think that this being their first time organizing a race and all, the ladies of the Mullica Hill tri club might keep it simple. Stick to the basics. And you'd be so wrong.

A couple minutes after the trumpet player serenaded us at the swim start with the Rocky theme, three planes soared over the lake in a military salute. The post-race party included a tower of mini pink-frosted cupcakes, topped with candy high heels, purses and other edible decorations.* At the award ceremony, the winner was provided with a robe and tiara, and a special throne to sit in while she was showered with victory champagne. Second and third place ("the Queen's Court") received flowers and sashes. Just like Miss America!

In between all that fun, of course, there was a race.

I rolled my bike into transition and through a sea of hot-pink singlets--the Mullica Hill Women's Tri Club, many of whom would be contesting their first-ever triathlon. I was immediately buoyed by their energy and enthusiasm--and by the realization that not a soul here would care that my handlebar wrap was secured with duct tape.

I assure you, Mr. Gilman, that I took a personal
interest in respecting my comrades.

The swim venue, Lake Gilman, was a feat of endurance in and of itself. "This used to be a forest," an elderly gentleman volunteer told me. "Miles Gilman chopped down all the trees by hand." Sadly, the lake's creator is no longer living, but he left his word behind for us to enjoy.

I also took a personal interest in the mirror beside
the Porta Potty.

You may now feel free to address me as Courtesan.

The bike and run took place on the type of scenic farm roads that Jersey is should be known for.

All in all, it was a successful day. The sun shone brightly. Money was raised for ovarian cancer. A bunch of women accomplished something they'd never done before. And when the last athlete finished, there were still some cupcakes left.**

*You just don't get that at a co-ed tri.
**A phenomenon also unique to women's tris.

Science Proves I'm Not a Freak

On May 14, 1607, a group of 104 men and boys landed on an island in Virginia’s Tidewater region, to establish a new British colony. By January, no more than 40 settlers remained. Many colonists had died of disease. Turns out they’d built their fort on a mosquito-ridden swamp.

Each fall, thousands of people continue to colonize this swamp. They are called college freshman, and some time ago, I was one of them. Of course, swamp living has come a long way since the 17th century, for we now have modern conveniences such as mosquito repellent and snow cones. And air conditioning, should your university choose to provide it.

Mine didn’t.

My freshman roommate and I were bemoaning this fact on one particularly stifling August night, as we attempted to go to sleep in our extra-long twin beds. Unfortunately, the only thing in our 10x11 cell that wasn’t sweating, burning, melting or wilting was the frosty six-pack of soda* in our mini-fridge.

And that, my friends, was the night I first tried (sleeping with) Coke. 

With the help of a few strategically placed cans, we were soon both off to dreamland. But when we shared our amazing brilliance with our hall mates the next morning, the universal reaction was something along the lines of  “You guys are weird.”

A decade later, however, some scientists at the University of Pittsburgh have discovered that we were on to something. It seems that when insomnia patients were given a special cooling cap set to 57 degrees, they slept more restoratively.

The results are preliminary (i.e. not peer-reviewed) and the cap is not yet on the market, but in the meantime, my colleagues over at Rodale.com have come up with some more practical ways to cool your head.

Still, never underestimate the power of a cold Coke in the armpit.

*No, seriously, it was.

Skirtical Mass

I’ve never been one for biking in a skirt. 

Actually that’s not true. I ride in skirts when the situation requires it, such as when I have a sudden and uncontrollable need for a 3 p.m. mocha . But I've never gone out of my way to purposely ride in one, or purchased a skirt specifically for biking. They look perfectly cute on other women, it's just not my thing. Shorts are more comfortable; also, I came of age at a time when Sir Mix a Lot was telling us that his "anaconda don't want none unless you've got buns, hun"* and wedding-goers everywhere were “Doin’ Da Butt”—“all night long.” Backsides were for shaking, not for draping.

My feelings changed, however, once I found out that skirt-pedaling might be a naughty (and therefore fun) activity: An NYPD officer allegedly threatened to ticket 31-year-old Dutch tourist Jasmijn Rijcken for doing just that. (Somewhere, someplace, the suffragettes who fought for our right to ride to the polls in pants are very confused.)

So the next time I ride in Manhattan, I might have to sport my mini in solidarity. And if I could be there tomorrow, I’d join the Short Skirt Celebration Ride.

*Plus a lot of other things we didn’t need to know about him.

A Dose of Perspective...and Funnel Cake

Okay, so I can't speak from experience on either count. But I'm reasonably certain that while being (incorrectly) deemed ineligible to run in the NCAA championships would be frustrating, and even heartbreaking, it is not, in fact, comparable to being "put on death row wrongfully."

(And I'm definitely glad I didn't have to give race interviews in the era of Web 2.0, or whatever number we're up to these days. It could have been far worse, of course--if you didn't catch the news back in February, just Google "Justin Bieber" and "Rolling Stone".)

Honestly though, college athletes and follicularly gifted pop stars aren't the only ones who could use a reality check once in awhile. Remember the last time you bonked?

Whether you'd been rolling with the fast group, or--ahem--simply set out without having any clue how long that route you'd mapped in your head really was, the result was probably the same: By the time you made it home, you'd plunged way, way down the rabbit hole.

You weren't thinking about how lucky you were that a bonk was the worst of your problems. Instead, you may have asked yourself, "Will I ever feel my legs again? Why is that bush talking to me?" Will anything ever again be right in the world?

There's only one thing to do in those circumstances (besides tell the forsythia to shut it): Bring in the jalebi.

Jalebi, which is said to have originated in Iran and is also known as Middle Eastern funnel cake, is a carbtastic treat that consists of deep-fried dough coated in sugar syrup. Unlike American funnel cake, its texture is more crunchy than doughy--sort of like eating sweetened onion rings, but without the onion. (That's a good thing.)

Today's bonk was remedied by Aria Mediterranean Cuisine in Swarthmore, PA.

And there you have it: Crisis averted. And while we're on the subject of fried foods, Happy National Doughnut Day!