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! 

Be Nice Out There

The leaves are on the trees and Magnum bars are on special at the Giant, which can mean only one thing: Triathlon season is upon us. Whether you’re signed up for your first tri this summer or your fiftieth, here are some etiquette tips to help the season go smoothly.

For tri-vets:

1. We all know that certain types of races cater to riders who don’t know how to use hand signals, and have trouble telling their right from their left (as in, stay to the right, pass to the left). It is perfectly okay not to want to race with those people— contrary to what the nuns may have told you, self-preservation is not a sin. However, it is NOT okay to sign up for the First-Timers’ Follies Triathlon and then complain about the presence of such riders. That’s like showing up at Jack-in-the-Box and throwing a tantrum because they don’t have filet mignon.

2. Women are taking up triathlon in record numbers these days (go us!) and the number of all-female races is also rapidly growing. If the whole girl-power thing isn’t for you, that’s cool, but please don’t sign up for a race with the words “diamond” or “diva” in the name and then act shocked when you show up to find  people laughing and hugging and waving glittery unicorn posters—you know, having fun. (Yes, that bubblegum-pink registration page should have been a tip-off.)

3. If you must express your displeasure about either of the above situations, it’s in your best interest not to do so in the Potty Queen line. Believe it or not, there’s probably someone faster than you within earshot. And mean people are more fun to beat than nice people.

4. Don’t take more than your share at the post-race buffet-- those yet to finish need to eat, too. In fact, they may need more food than you, because they were out there longer. Many races will let you come back through the line later if there’s leftover grub.

For beginners:

1. Before you set up your gear in transition, make sure you’re clear on the number of bikes your race allows on each rack. If you put your bike on a rack that’s already full, you risk getting everyone on that rack disqualified with you. (Awkward!)

2. Stay. To. The. Right. Ninety percent of the ill will between experienced and new triathletes could be avoided if people followed this one simple rule on the bike and run courses. For one thing, it’s safer: Don’t assume just because someone has great legs or a fancy ride that he also possesses the handling skills to weave around you. Plus, if the referee sees you in someone’s way, you could get a time penalty for blocking.

3. The vast majority of people who offer you advice mean well, even if the delivery leaves something to be desired. If I tell you that your helmet’s on backwards, I promise I’m not trying to embarrass you. It’s just that the little girl in your arms is adorable, and I’m pretty sure she wants you to be around to see her grow up.   

For everyone:

1. While your rack-mates in transition are indeed your competition, they are not the enemy. Smile and say hi.  Besides, you may end up having to borrow someone else’s pump.

2.  It is generally in poor taste to complain when a tri becomes a du—especially when someone died on the course the previous week. Remember that the race director doesn’t want to deal with your whining any more than you want to run an extra 5K – if the swim is canceled there’s a good reason.

3. Depending on the weather conditions, volunteering can be as physically demanding as racing—and you don’t get a medal or the benefit of an endorphin rush. Make sure to thank those who gave their time so you could enjoy the big day.

Saved by the Shorts

Over the years I've encountered no small number of athletes who are reluctant to race because they're afraid their results will be embarrassingly slow. I have to say that's never been one of my worries -- because I usually succeed in humiliating myself long before I've crossed the finish line. Such was the case at my local training 5k this past Wednesday.

Everything was going according to plan: I'd parked a mile away from the race venue, dropped my car key into my shorts pocket, jogged along a beautiful wooded rec path to the registration table, visited the Porta-Potti, and begun to loosen up. I was leaning into a hamstring stretch, my right foot resting on a cement wall, when I realized that I couldn't feel my key digging into my hip bone.  I quickly hopped down and reached into my pocket. Empty.

My thoughts over the next moments can best be summed up as: OMG/lockedout/letmeretracemysteps/EWEWEWEWNOOOOOOO!

As I walked back toward the toilets, I tried to decide which would be worse--finding the key inside, or not finding it, and knowing I had over a mile of ground to cover. I was soon distracted, however, by an uncomfortable sensation between my legs. I was being poked, and not in a fun Facebookish way.

The good/bad news was, my key wasn't floating in raw sewage. It was sitting safely in the crotch of my shorts liner.

Hoping to take care of this situation as discreetly as possible, I scanned the wholesome scene in front of me: Puppies and toddlers pranced joyfully among the clover. New moms with impossibly ripped biceps presided over jogging strollers. Elderly couples shuffled through their evening constitutional. Most importantly, the nearest privacy foliage was a good 75 yards away.

I quickly realized that there is no socially acceptable way for a woman to access the inside of her running shorts in public.* Reaching down the front was an obvious don't. A stealth faux wedgie pick might go largely unnoticed...until the key was dislodged of course, upon which the following conversation would no doubt take place:

"Daddy, why does that lady keep things in her underwear?"
"Sweetie, I told you it's not nice to...hey, look, a puppy!"

Naturally, I was convinced all eyes were upon me as I gingerly waddled back into the Porta-Potti that I'd exited all of 60 seconds ago. Upon emerging, I double-knotted the key onto my shoelace--which, yes, is what I should have done in the first place. There's a reason race directors don't instruct you to stash timing chips in your shorts.**

I'd like to think that this will be my last bonehead move for a while. And now, if you'll excuse me, I need to go duct-tape some handlebar wrap.

*Actually, guys, it's not really cool when you do it either.
**In fact, there are probably several reasons.

Tina Fey Wants You to Wear Your Bike Helmet

Ever since Mean Girls came out, I've been a huge fan of Tina Fey. In addition to giving us Liz Lemon and Fake Sarah Palin, she's proven that kids from Delaware County, PA can become famous when they grow up--without suing Donald Duck or  marrying a Dixie Chick.

If you've browsed through any magazines lately, you may have noticed that Ms. Fey appears on the cover of a lot of them. This is because she's promoting her new book, Bossypants*, and it does not disappoint. In between the tales of working with people who pee in jars and eating lunch at Roy Rogers**, there's this gem, from a chapter about her honeymoon cruise:

"We will ride our bikes around the island with a guide to a special secluded beach where we can swim and have rum swizzles...sounds pretty good, right?*** That's what I thought too. I wouldn't shut up about it. For weeks before we left I bragged about how I had chosen the best excursion. It was fitness and fun combined!"

Soon, however, there's trouble in paradise:

"A quick check of our itinerary reveals the heartbreaking truth. The bike trip was yesterday. In my excitement, I memorized it wrong. I cry. I cry like a three year old who just wants to take her toy cash register into the bathtub."

I have no idea whether Fey considers herself a cyclist, but clearly, the lady's got potential.

Bossypants is full of good advice: make statements, not questions; don't eat diet foods in meetings. But the most important lesson of all might come from Gregory, who belonged to the Chicago-area YMCA where Fey worked after college. Here's his life story:

"'I used to be an accountant. I had a lovely wife and family. I had a big house. One day I had to go to the store, but my wife had the car. I took my bike, but I didn't wear a helmet. I got hit by a truck. I suffered a head injury. I still have difficulty walking. I lost everything. My wife left me. I lost my job. So when you ride your bike, think of me and always wear a helmet.'"

Fey goes on to explain that the accident had robbed Gregory of his short-term memory, so he would tell that story every time he met someone. Sometimes three times a day. To the same person.

There are a lot of people in this world who will tell you to wear a bike helmet--police officers; bearded bike advocates in Day-Glo vests; your mother. But if you didn't listen to them, maybe you'll listen to Gregory.

*Otherwise known as "that book with the hairy man-arms on the cover."
**I know--I thought they'd all gone out of business too. But the curly fry lives. It LIVES!
***It most certainly does.

Happy Peepster

Some people believe that Sundays should be a day of rest. I am not one of those people--unless the Sunday happens to be Easter and there are Peeps to be eaten.

I must confess that for most of my life, I did not enjoy eating Marshmallow Peeps, despite my best efforts. When I moved to an apartment just a mile from Peep Headquarters, I tried them again, after one friend swore that the Peeps I sent him from Pennsylvania tasted better than the ones he could get in stores in Virginia. I even tried eating them stale, as some people insisted was key. No luck.

But then, a few weeks ago, a friend offered me a homemade chocolate-covered Peep. I took one, to be polite--and then bit into what may be the world's most perfect dessert. And I'm kicking myself for missing out on artificially colored marshmallow goodness for so long.

The recipe is, as you may have guessed, quite easy--and almost as fun as watching Peeps blow up in the microwave.

Peep Pops

You will need:
*Peeps! (Bunnies work nicely because they lay flat.)
*Chocolate of your choice for melting. I used Wilton wafers -- they harden better than, say, chocolate chips. 1 bag of wafers is more than enough to coat 12 Peeps.
*Lollipop sticks
*Cake-decorating accoutrements: sprinkles, colored sugar, etc. Go crazy.
*Wax or parchment paper, for drying your Peeps

1. Separate the Peeps from their neighbors.
2. Insert a lollipop stick into the bottom of each Peep. Get it in as deep as you can without deforming the marshmallow -- your Peep is in for a wild ride. It's normal to feel uncomfortable while doing this.
3. Melt the chocolate according to the wafer package's instructions. If you're not using wafers, I suggest you look for chocolate-melting instructions elsewhere, because I mess up and overcook mine about 50 percent of the time.
4. Make your Peep take the plunge. My preferred method is to tilt the bowl slightly, so I can slide the Peep in sideways (keeping it more or less parallel to the countertop)


I see you too. 

 5. Gently shake off the excess chocolate, taking care not to fling the Peep off the stick.
6. Decorate! The chocolate hardens pretty quickly, so you may want to decorate your first half-batch before dipping the rest.
7. If you have candy molds, you can make a few pieces with the excess chocolate (or, of course, just lick the bowl).
8. Let the pops dry. If you're using wafers, your Peeps will harden at room temperature -- no need to refrigerate.

Happiness is not getting poked with a lollipop stick.





9. If you're really feeling ambitious, skip the Peep Pops altogether and go for a Peep Topiary:

I so didn't make this.



Remembering Grete

I wasn't born when Grete Waitz won the 1978 New York City Marathon. I never saw her blonde braids "swishing rhythmically...as she churned up First Avenue" en route to any of her nine victories. But I was there a few years ago on a muggy June evening in Central Park, standing sweaty-shoulder-to-sweaty-shoulder with thousands of other desk jockeys, when a soft-spoken Waitz stepped to the podium to wish us luck in the the JP Morgan Chase Corporate Challenge. Organizers couldn't have chosen a better ambaassador: This elite runner was also one of us.

We all find inspiration in different places, and for me, it's not Quenton Cassidy pissing blood after 60x400 in John L. Parker Jr.'s novel, Once a Runner, or cyclist Tom Simpson pedaling himself to death on the sun-baked slopes of Mt. Ventoux. It's Norwegian schoolteacher Grete Waitz setting a world marathon record in her first attempt at the distance, after a dinner of shrimp cocktail, steak, wine, and ice cream --because, you know, it was her first time to the States and she was about to retire from elite running, so she might as well celebrate--then hurling her shoes at her husband at the finish, declaring she'd never run another marathon again.

Oh, and by the way, she'd never run more than 12 miles at a time. And she had no clue where the finish line was, because all the markers were in miles, not kilometers.

Today, Waitz is no longer with us, after a six-year battle with cancer, and a working stiff has about as much chance of winning the New York City marathon as the naked cowboy in Times Square. But, thanks in part to Waitz's life's work inspiring recreational athletes, more than 40,000 people now finish the race each year--ten times the number of finishers in 1977. And female runners are no longer considered over-the-hill at 25.

Also, the most important lessons from Waitz's story still hold true. You don't have to do everything right to accomplish great things--although you'll probably be happier (and nicer to your loved ones) at the finish line if you're at least somewhat trained. Race like it's your last chance. Make a weekend out of it.

And--ahem--never count out a runner in pigtails.

Whoopie! We Won!

That's the headline that ran in the food section of today's Morning Call, which has published the results of its Keystone vs. Downeast Whoopie Pie Taste-Off, judged in part by yours truly. (Because we live in a multimedia world, naturally there's also a video in which I stuff my face, and a photo of me examining a pie for icing thickness.) I couldn't be any more excited for Bird-in-Hand Bakery, which took the top spot -- I've been enjoying their wares since I was a kid.

Post-Race Treat: Mint Cookies-and-Cream Brownies

Remember those commercials from the '80s when biting into a York Peppermint Patty would instantly summon a refreshing breeze? That's what inspired me to tweak the Oreo brownie recipe from a box of Betty Crocker mix. These brownies don't contain peppermint patties, although I may try subbing them in for the hot chocolate mix sometime.

You'll need:
1 box brownie mix (9x13 pan size)
Egg, oil and water (as directed by your brownie box)
1 2/3 cups Oreo cookie crumbs (I used mint Oreo Double Stuffs), divided
1/3 cup Williams Sonoma Peppermint Hot Chocolate (buy it at half price in early January)
Enough frosting to cover a 9x13 pan of brownies (I used store-bought frosting this time, but you should make it yourself, because tub frosting often contains trans fats, which are nasty and evil)

1. Make the brownie mix according to the box instructions.
2. Stir in 1 cup cookie crumbs and the hot chocolate mix.
3. Bake as directed.
4. When brownies are fully cool, frost them, then sprinkle remaining cookie crumbs over frosting.
5. For maximum refreshment, eat them in front of a fan with your eyes closed.

More than Meats: The Hatfield 5 and Dime

Race Date: 4/10/11
Location: Hatfield, PA
Weather: Elephant Gray
Distance: 5 or 10 miles
Postrace spread: tomato pie, bagels and cream cheese, bananas
Calves: Light Ivory
What I Baked Afterwards: Mint Cookies-and-Cream Brownies

If you live in eastern Pennsylvania, you probably think Hatfield is the home of Hatfield Quality Meats--because it is. But as I found out last weekend, its also so much more. For one thing it's home to a fabulous water slide:

It's also, for the second year, the host to the Hatfield 5 and Dime, a blissfully flat 5- or 10-miler that raises money for improvements to the community's parks. This year, the money will go to a cause near and dear to all runners--public restrooms.

The course consists of a five-mile loop; it's up to you to decide mid-race if you're going to run it once or twice. I'd planned on doing the 5-mile race, but as I approached the split point, my legs still felt improbably fresh. Fueled by a new sense of optimism--as well as the chorus of Tom Petty's "Runnin' Down the Dream," which had been pulsing though my brain for the past 34 minutes (well played, Mr. Start-Line DJ)--I decided to bypass the finish line and trot out for another round.

Just kidding.

Like many races, the 5 and Dime puts on a Health and Safety Fair. The displays on various ailments are a wonderful tool to educate athletes on the importance of a healthy lifestyle--and, I've always suspected, a sneaky way of ensuring we don't take too many packets of cream cheese at the post-race celebration. (Those things cost money, you know.) Anyway, certain elements are common to most health fairs, and this one did not disappoint. There were energy drinks with inscrutable labels:

And creepy mannequins with mildly inappropriate signage:

This particular booth was being helmed by a high-school-age girl, which I appreciated--being a former high-school-age, female creator of inappropriate signage myself.

After we'd all eaten our fill of tomato pie and bagels (taking care to go easy on the cream cheese), it was time to give out the door prizes, via randomly drawn bib numbers.

Just as I was congratulating myself on not winning the gift certificate to the local version of Chuck E. Cheese, I heard my number called. I had won...an at-home CPR instruction kit from the local visiting nurses' association.

Yes, that's right. I now have a creepy mannequin of my very own--complete with spare lung!

Party's at my place next weekend.

 All I can say is, the next time I take a photo of something at a race to make fun of it on the Internet, I'm going to choose a different subject--like really expensive shoes.

It's Not Easy Being Green

When I was growing up in Broomall, PA, I swam for Marple Newtown Swim Club during the summers. Our mascot was the seahorse, which was not at all intimidating--and a real pain in the butt to draw on posters. Our most heated rivalry was with the team from Martin's Dam Swim Club in nearby Wayne. Their mascot was the frog, which was equally unintimidating (but much easier to draw).

Even after 10+ years of summer-club meets, I never really figured out why we wanted to beat them so much, other than the fact that they were generally from nicer neighborhoods and we needed an excuse to cover our faces in blue zinc oxide every once in a while.



Don't try this on sunny days.

 The summer after my freshman year of high school, in addition to swimming on the team, I had a part-time job at the snack bar. I learned many essential life skills there: appeasing impatient customers; grilling Philly cheesesteaks; breaking Otis Spunkmeyer cookies and making it appear like an accident.

One of the most coveted jobs at the snack bar was creating the white-board sign that would sit on the main level of the club during swim meets, to remind guests that there was junk food to be had on the lower level. The night of the Martin's Dam meet, I was selected for the task. My advertisement went something like this:

Tonight's Special

In honor of the meet against Martin's Dam, the snack bar will be serving

FROG LEGS

They are a bargain at $4.25 each.
Come on down!

As I recall, illustrations were also involved.

I found out the next day that during the meet, a little girl from Martin's Dam read the sign and completely freaked out. Eventually her mother was able to convince her that the ad wasn't real, and that she would not be faced with dismembered amphibians when she went to buy her Ring Pop.

How did I hear this? The woman was my mother's boss.
To my knowledge, Mom has yet to rat me out.

Mead-ieval Times

The first conversation I ever had with my boyfriend, Dave, took place on the jungle gym at our school's end-of-year kindergarten picnic. I didn't know him--he was in the morning class; I was in the afternoon--but that's okay, because I had a really great pick-up line:

[Wait for it, wait for it...]

"What kind of sandwich is that?"

It turned out to be a BLT, which I found incredibly fascinating and exotic. BLTs were a dinner food at my house. For lunch, the choices were PB&J and baloney and cheese.

Almost 30 years (and one trip to Japan) later, Dave still inspires me to expand my culinary horizons. I now know, for example, that I like sea urchin and beef tongue. I can even eat shrimp with the head on--a great party trick for business dinners. But most recently, Dave and his friends introduced me to the many wonders of mead.

It all started when Dave's friend Colin started a small fermenting operation in his bedroom. After about a year of trial and error--including one early batch that "smelled like an apple tree vomited"--he declared the elixir fit for public consumption. Dave offered to make some food, and thus, Mead Fest was born.

It turns out that when you mention "mead fest" in casual conversation, you get asked a lot of questions. Here are some of the most common.

What is mead?
Mead is an alcoholic drink made from fermented honey. It's also known as honey wine. According to Wikipedia, it is the "ancestor of all fermented beverages."

Hey--didn't they drink that in Spartacus?
Why yes. It also features prominently in Beowulf. Which is pretty much all I remember about Beowulf.

I'm sensitive to the sulfites in wine. Can I still drink mead?
It depends. Wine- and mead-makers often add sulfur dioxide to their beverages because it kills microbes that lead to spoilage, while sparing the yeasts, which have evolved to be resistant to sulfur. (Cheers to Darwin!) However, there are plenty of producers who use alternative sterilization methods. Organic mead should not contain added sulfites.

What does mead taste like?
Like alcoholic honey (shocking, I know). In a word, divine.

Does mead come in different flavors?

Of course! Here are just some of the ones we tried:

I believe these are cherry vanilla, cranberry, and raspberry. And yes, that would be a jar o' Pez in the middle.

My favorite flavor was orange cinnamon; I also loved cranberry and cherry vanilla. Although it was very tasty, I only managed a sip of the jalapeno, which is probably just as well, as Dave claimed the next day that it was still eating him from the inside out. That might have put a damper on my Sunday bike ride.

What do you eat with mead?
A better question: What don't you eat?

Paella and gyros and ribs, oh my!

Our party of nine also enjoyed brisket, shrimp, potatoes and roasted vegetables. And of course, there was dessert. In addition to making an Easy Key Lime Pie, I tried a new cupcake recipe.

It may look like an ordinary vanilla cupcake. But here are the secret ingredients:

They go together like PowerBars and top tubes.

  You can find the recipe in this awesome book by Julie Hasson, otherwise known as my cupcake bible.

Now that you're a mead aficionado, are you going to start doing things like attending Renaissance Fairs and making your own chain mail?
No.

Running the Bases

Last weekend, I joined in as thousands of baseball fans flocked to Philadelphia’s Citizens Bank Park. This by itself is not unusual. But this time, the crowd wasn’t there to throw batteries at players or puke on police officers, but to run the inaugural Phillies 5k. Not bad for a town Men's Fitness once named America's Fattest City.

I went into the race with two big goals:

1.       Pose for a picture with the Phillie Phanatic.

2.       Win some Carlos Ruiz-related memorabilia for a good friend’s mom, who has a wee crush on Chooch.  She refers to him as Mon Petit Fuego—“because he’s my little fireplug.” Adorable.

The race itself was a blast, with friendly (really!) participants and spectators, a flat, flast course that wound through FDR Park, and a post-race party on Ashburn Alley. As for my goals...well, in baseball terms, I went 0 for 2. Additionally, I managed to break just about every smart-running rule possible, including the most important one of all: Do not attempt to keep up with furry green mascots in plastic pace cars, no matter how flash you're feeling at the start.

On the bright side, I didn’t come away completely empty-handed. In addition to a bottle of Dasani and a green banana, I took home a baseball autographed by Placido Polanco. I suspect it would have been less painful to catch one during a game, but with my lack of coordination, it might be awhile before I get back to you on that one.



Polly, if this is why your elbow was bothering you last week, I owe you one.



I’d originally planned to refuel on ballpark concessions, but funnel cake and hot dogs al fresco are somewhat less enticing when its 35 degrees outside and you’re drenched in sweat. I decided to seek shelter, preferably someplace where omelets were served.  And here’s the one thing I did right: I signed up for the race with friends. Not just any friends, mind you, but the kind of pals who cheerfully help you satisfy your Oregon Diner craving, even though they just had dinner there the night before.

The best part: The Phillies threw two vouchers for pre-season tickets into every goodie bag. There’s nothing that could get me more psyched for opening day. Except maybe this video (language may be NSFW, depending on where you W).

Welcome to My Sugar Coma

The Morning Call whoopie pie smackdown is officially complete. My brain (and tongue) is still a little fuzzy from the experience, but here are some of the most memorable moments, in no particular order:

Our test session took place in a fancy-appliance showroom -- and might be the only instance where whoopie pies have ever been served on a granite-topped island.

In choosing our panel of about 8 testers, food editor Diane Stoneback said she was looking for people who "sounded like fun...and maybe a little bit crazy."

Three of us were cyclists.

Like members of a sugar-addicts' support group, we all took turns introducing ourselves and our reasons for attending.

In doing this, we discovered that we'd somehow chosen seats so that all the PA natives were on the same side of the table, and all the New Englanders (or descendants of New Englanders) on the other--with Geoff from Canada in the middle. Spooky.

To cleanse our palates, we drank coffee from a built-in espresso machine, which fits into the kitchen wall the way an ice dispenser sits in a refrigerator door. I am in awe.

Thanks to the above-mentioned caffeine--as well as the hours-long fast I inflicted upon myself in preparation--I was literally shaking with excitement at the start.

We were each given SIX WHOLE WHOOPIE PIES to eat, and plenty of doggie bags. I am in deeper awe.

It turns out that sampling six whoopie pies is much like drinking (a little) too much beer. You will crave salty snacks. You will be inexplicably happy. You may even find yourself doing things like singing along to Taylor Swift at the top of your lungs and supressing the urge to call people for no reason.

All whoopie pies are not created equal. Some of them stuck to plates. One had eerily spongy icing.
And at least one baker out there has a serious lard addiction. Others were the culinary equivalent of fresh legs and a 30-mph tailwind.

I'm not out to scoop the hand that fed me, so you'll have to wait for the Morning Call's coverage for the whole story. (And so will I--we don't yet know which state won.)

I think it's naptime now.

Tasting Whoopie

Whoopie pies, for the uninitiated, aren’t really pies at all—they consist of a thick layer of icing sandwiched between two rounds of cake, sort of like a soft, oversize Oreo.

According to one Pennsylvania legend, the treats got their name from Lancaster County farmers, who’d yell “Whoopie!” whenever they discovered the confections in their lunch bags. But now, it seems there’s trouble in Paradise – some folks in Maine claim that the treats originated there, not in the Keystone State. And Starbucks recently began offering a sissy petite red velvet version, which is sure to only add to the confusion.

Hey Starbucks: A Lancaster County whoopie pie called. It wants its missing piece back.

We may never know who invented these goodies, but the Allentown Morning Call is determined to answer the question that really matters: Which state makes the best whoopie pie? I don’t usually read the paper in print, but in a most fortunate twist of fate, I happened to spot a copy a couple weeks ago at my local bike shop. Upon reading that the paper had put out a call for prospective taste testers, I immediately rushed home to write my essay:

Dear Whoopie Pie Test Team Selection Committee:

Why should I help you test whoopie pies? Let me count the ways...

1. As a lifelong Pennsylvanian (save for four sadly whoopie-pieless years when I went to college in Virginia), my appreciation for the whoopie pie goes back decades.  

2. I believe that magical things happen when cake meets icing--so much so that I recently started blogging about it.

3. I do my best to spread the joy of whoopie pies across state lines. I've been known to go to as many as four stores in search of the perfect whoopie-pie hostess gift, and I even once carried a six-pack of them on a flight to Texas, which earned me a little extra quality time with the TSA officers. (No, they didn't "touch my junk"--and yes, I got to keep the pies.)

At least one person at the paper has an odd sense of humor…because I will be joining the test session today (after some treadmill time). Whoopie! I guess Duff Goldman was busy or something. Will Pennsylvania’s honor be upheld? Or will we emerge from the smackdown with pie on our faces? 

Not Guilty, Part 1

When I was in middle school, I joined a club swim team coached by a gentleman named John McFadden. A career teacher, John clearly loved his student-athletes—but he also had a most unique way of voicing his displeasure.

And we displeased him often.

It's important to note, however, that whether we arrived late, sat on the wall, splashed water at a member of the opposite sex, or simply swam slower than John deemed acceptable, he didn’t call us lazy. Or stupid. Or slow. He didn’t, in fact, call us anything. Instead, he’d bellow,

“THAT’S NOT GOING TO GET YOU TO THE PROMISED LAND!”

The Promised Land could be anything from a state championship to an Olympic Trials qualifying time—or, in my case, the chance to be the slowest girl on my high school team’s fastest relay.* (It’d be a few more years before I’d figure out that my Promised Land was, in fact, on solid ground and not at sea.)

At the time, I wasn’t too concerned with John's word choice. I was more worried about how many push-ups we'd have to do as penance. But now, I can’t help but wonder if his coaching style is part of the reason I don’t feel guilty when I miss a workout. Yes, you read that right.

I’m not saying I don’t regret skipping exercise. Besides the fact that I’ve missed out on something that’s frequently fun and always good for my sanity, I know it’s going to take me that much longer to drop my 5k time, or to be able to keep up with a fast group ride, or to be able to finish a half marathon in a new city with enough energy to bar-hop that evening. But guilty? Not so much.

I still do push-ups, though...when I feel like it.

Hollywood wants us to believe that success in sports is directly related to character. And that’s fine, within reason. I mean, I enjoy kicking back with Chariots of Fire and a warm beer as much as anyone.** But when you’re facing a hellish work deadline and the basement’s flooded and your best friend is sobbing to you over the phone that her guinea pig is having seizures (don’t ask), sometimes it’s best to take morality out of the picture, postpone the freaking tempo run already, and spare yourself the inner debate whether this decision is consistent with your New Year's resolution to grow as a person.

Whatever. It's just going to take you a little longer to get to the Promised Land.

Admittedly, I have no idea if John would agree with all this. As much as I’d love to buy him a warm beer and ask him why he used the phrase, he went to his eternal Promised Land a long time ago.

Wherever he is, you can bet everyone knows how to swim.

*That’s right: I celebrate the small victories.

**Maybe even a little more. Okay...a lot more.

In A Pickle

For my first race of the season, I’d planned on running the Ambler Frostbite 5-Miler. I’d planned to sign up the week of the event,  figuring that any race over 5k in Pennsylvania in winter would never stand a chance of filling up.

Silly me.

The weather forecast was 40 and windy, with 50mph gusts. I knew if I told myself, “I’ll just do a workout instead,” there was a good chance that workout would end up being sitting on the couch reading magazines. I had to find another race. In Pennsylvania. In February.

Which is how I found myself at the Winter Pickle Run.

Held in a local state park, the Pickle is a 3.2-mile prediction run: Before the race, you write down the time you think you’ll run, and those who come closest to their predicted times win prizes. I love low-key winter races like this, largely because of the motley crew that shows up.

There are the families, some of them out for the kids’ first 5k (yeah!), led by parents whose expressions clearly read, “We’ve had way too many snow days this year.”

There are members of a tribe I’ve dubbed the Enlightened Cyclists (think bike jerseys paired with sweatpants), who have finally realized that even a run in 50-mph winds is still better than a ride inside.

There will be the parade of frantic latecomers (although in this case, tardiness was somewhat justified -- a downed tree had blocked one of the main roads going into the park).

Inevitably, there will be one spectator with a dog the size of a small cow.

Finally, there are the chicken-legged guys in their Sunday best: Short- shorts (no matter what the temperature) and shirts or jackets from more-prestigious events. They're the ones running strides around everyone else (including the dog) in the parking lot*, looking mildly perturbed at the fresh hell developing around them. 

And of course, there were the pickles. Pickles in pint glasses on picnic tables—spoils to be bestowed on event victors. Dressed-up pickles—decked out in pipe-cleaner hats and googley eyes—which were hidden on the course for us to find.  During registration, the event director wore a brimmed hat festooned with gherkins; for the start, he changed into a full-body pickle suit, complete with Mickey Mouse-style gloves.  You really haven’t raced until you’ve been sent off by a pickle with a megaphone.

“Picklers ready…Go!”

I never did find any of the trailside pickles, but the search proved a welcome distraction from things such as my burning lungs, the flailing trees and downed power lines on the course, and the fact that an autumn’s worth of leaves was barreling down the hillside toward us at 50 mph.

After I crossed the line (nearly a minute sooner than predicted—no pickle for me), I sat on a bench in the sun, attempting to ward off the chill with free hot coffee and freshly popped popcorn, as I watched the pickle cheer, heckle and direct runners at the finish. It was a surprisingly perfect way to spend a winter afternoon. But don’t take my word for it: Your next (and final) chance for briny glory in 2011 is March 19^th.

*Full disclosure: I’m a parking-lot strider too. But I’m a big fan of pants.

Rest Day Recipe: Easy Key Lime Pie

“Turning 60 is FUN!”—The Sweet Triathlomom

A recent workout consisted of a series of sprints from car to ice-cold parking lot to supermarket to party store and back (in addition to, um, some vigorous fanning of our kitchen smoke detector). I figure I can train just about any day, but my mom only turns 60 once.

My sister and I were throwing her a dinner party, for which I’d decided to attempt one of Mom’s favorite desserts, key lime pie. Turns out it’s quite easy. I knew I wouldn’t have the patience to squeeze 12 key limes—I’m an Olympic-distance triathlete, not an Ironman—so I searched for a recipe that called for bottled juice. This one from Epicurious was a hit with our 13 guests. My family and I are lime lovers, but if you’d prefer a pie with less bite, you could eliminate the extra 2 T juice (I used Nellie and Joe’s brand). Leftover alert: The recipe calls for 4 egg yolks—use the whites that remain in vanilla cupcakes.*

*Or a really big egg white omelet.**

**Yeah, the cupcakes sound a lot better to me, too.

Training Diary #1: Ride for the 'Shrooms

Date: February 17, 2011
Activity: Ride
Duration: 1 hour, 40 minutes
Route: Somewhere in Eastern Pennsylvania
Miles: ??
Weather: What is that strange glowing object in the sky? Could it be...THE SUN?!!
Calves: Pasty white
HR: Pretty freakin' high (until I got dropped)
Reward: Susan Rice Alexander's Charlie's Truffled Popcorn

I'm no expert on mushrooms, but after inhaling a bag of gourmet popcorn sprinkled with the stuff, I'm convinced that truffle people are the triathletes of the food world.

Consider Susan Rice Alexander's Charlie's Truffled Popcorn, which unapologetically proclaims its costliness on its packaging: "You're about to indulge in one of the most expensive foods in the world." This is apparently because truffles grow only in certain climates--"mostly France and Italy"--two countries that coincidentally also make great bikes.

Susan, however, is doing her part to help everyday Americans exercise their right to consume pricey fungi. Her 200-acre truffle farm in North Carolina is, she says, the largest in the U.S. "My mission is to turn America's tobacco farmland into the Napa Valley of truffles," she says.

Damn. Maybe I need to set my goals a little higher.*
But Susan is there to cheer me up: "Welcome to the sexy, mystical world of the truffle."

What now?

For verification, I consult that most trusted source, Wikipedia, which states:
"A truffle (pronounced /ˈtrʌfəl/) is the fruiting body of an underground mushroom; spore dispersal is accomplished through fungivores, animals that eat fungi." Which doesn't sound at all sexy to me.

So I read on: "The origin of the word truffle appears to be the Latin term tuber, meaning 'swelling' or 'lump'". [Cue the sound of middle-school boys giggling].

Ah. It's all starting to make sense. She never does explain who Charlie is, though.

I'm sure he's very mystical and sexy.

*Or actually set goals in the first place.

Happy Valentine's Day

Yes, I know I'm a day late. But it's never too early to start thinking about how to celebrate next year. And if you happen to have a sugar-lovin' multisport maven in your life when the time comes...flowers with lollipops are an excellent start. 

I could just eat them up.

Don't forget a card.





This is best attempted on the trainer.



It's the sort of thing that people roll their eyes at in the store. But when they get one from a special friend, they say, "Aww." And think it's the best thing ever.

Yes, I Eat Tastykakes

“What,” my coworker asked, “is that?”

 I panicked for a second—crap, I knew it was only a matter of time before I got bugs in my office—until I realized that all she was pointing at was some empty cellophane.

“Oh, that,” I said, relieved. “That was a Tastykake.” A dollop of buttercream icing still clung to one of the corners of the wrapper. I wondered if it would be inappropriate to lick it off in front of her.

And then came one of the most disturbing things anyone has ever said to me.

“You…eat Tastykakes?”

I realize most people would take this as a compliment. Besides, hardly a day goes by when I’m not swimming, running or biking (or ice skating, snowboarding, or lifting), and I race pretty much year-round. But while the way I identify as an athlete has changed over time (from high school swimmer to college runner to desk-chair surfer/cyclist/triathlete, not to mention that unfortunate stint as a gymnast in second grade…), there’s one thing I’ve always known I’m not: a Person Who Does Not Eat Tastykakes.

Even so, I struggled to come up with a proper response.

I could have explained that I grew up outside Philadelphia—home of the Tasty Baking Company itself (for now, anyway) as well as the Save the Tastykake Facebook group*—where peeling the butterscotch icing off a Krimpet was as much of a lunchtime ritual as chanting “Oooooooooh!” when a classmate dropped a tray.**

I could have pointed her toward this wonderfully candid interview with elite runner Julia Lucas, which pretty much sums up what it’s like to be a collegiate distance runner who’s willing to eat a piece of pie in public:

“I’d find myself eating more, or eating junkier food, just to kind of prove to [my teammates] it was OK. I’d eat for them…I’d see it as my mission to beat girls on other teams who were losing too much weight. It was a huge source of motivation.”

(In other words: Yes, I’m faster than you…and I eat dessert too! BWAHAHA!)

 I might have simply mentioned how well the chocolate cupcakes pair with stout.

Instead, what I said was:

“Um, yes. I do. I mean, sometimes. [Awkward pause.] And they’re buy one, get one free at Giant this week!”

The truth is, I love Tastykakes. And tofu. And biking. And baking. And I don’t believe that any of these things are mutually exclusive. Which is why—once back in the privacy of my mess—I made sure that last bit of buttercream was disposed of properly. Yum.

All was well until few days later when, after a lunchtime ride, I opened another cupcake package, only to be greeted by a sight as disappointing as it was disgusting: fuzzy frosting. It turns out that while a Twinkie may last forever, the big T's cream-filled chocolate cupcakes will grow mold if neglected.***

I guess I’m not eating enough Tastykakes.

*Our motto: “We will never die, Little Debbie, so get that out of your little head!”

**If I ever did this to you, I’m sorry.

***So that’s why Giant had them on sale. Bastards.

My Krimpets shall grow mold no more.

 

It's so gratifying to know there are others like me at the office.