But what’s a girl eating healthy to do?

I flashed back to a conversation I had recently with a friend about cannoli dip – she said it’s very simple to make and I agree (though you know I jazzed it up a bit).  Give it a shot and tell me how you like it!  We’re serving dollops of this tonight on bowls of fresh strawberries and blueberries.

Dip:

1 container part-skim ricotta cheese, 1/2 cup powdered sugar (or more to taste), a good handful of mini semi-sweet chocolate chips, a capful of vanilla extract, 1 tsp amaretto, zest of one lemon.  Mix together and chill.  Serve generous dollops on bowls of fresh fruit.

Ok, that’s a lie.  I’ve ALWAYS been interested in food and diet but now I’m becoming more deeply invested in reconciling an abiding love of all things culinary with a drive to be as healthy as possible.  Like everyone, I grapple with how to want or even crave what’s good for me when sometimes all I want is a jamocha shake and curly fries.   But you only get one body in this life and while no one should be deprived of the sensual pleasures of a wonderful meal or  the occasional decadent dessert, it just doesn’t make sense to pump garbage into your body and expect it to respond with energy, strength and long-term health.

Recently, I picked up Michael Pollan’s Food Rules.  This tiny tome has just over 60 easy-to-remember rules for healthy eating.  It’s not a diet in the way Weight Watchers or South Beach are – just simple things that can help make us all a little healthier.  To wit: Eat food.  Not too much.  Mostly plants.

As I grocery shopped today, it was easy for me to think about picking foods with pronounceable ingredients, striving to hit the perimeter of the store where fresh food is, avoid foods with more than 5 ingredients (too processed), etc.  I came home and felt satisfied when I made an awesome white bean dip, full of fresh herbs, garlic, and lemon juice.   (Note: I add more lemon juice and herbs, use fresh oregano, and add basil…it’s pretty foolproof).  And I felt better after eating something that was good for me!

Man, I thought to myself as I rolled over to a cool spot, that was a boring dream.

Apparently highly offended by my offhand remark, my subconscious then wreaked its revenge.  I’ll show you! my subconsious chortled.  Creative, oh, I’ll GIVE you creative.

I then was treated to a nightmare where my beloved and I were on a midnight boat trip in some exotic jungle.  Beset by an impulse I pray never overtakes me in real life, dream me became very excited and decided to jump into the dark, dark water for a little swim.  Then of course, I realize there are all manner of things in the water.  Things with sharp teeth and an appetite primed for tender girl-flesh.  Things that one cannot see but know instinctively are bad, bad news.

Pull me up, I screamed to our dream tour guide.  He launched me back into the boat and somehow, the water becomes illuminated.  I see great whites and all manner of imaginary creatures – and then wake up with a gasp.

From this point out, I’m paying the inner me only the most lavish of compliments.

For the uninitiated, a “treats” dinner is pretty much what it sounds like: yumminess that you wouldn’t normally have for supper.  The phrase was coined by my mom and back in the day, meant pizza slices cut into bites and eaten while sitting on a blanket in the family room, watching a movie and drinking one (usually forbidden) glass of pop.  Treats dinners generally happened when Dad was out of town on business.

Despite my general reluctance to patronize Whole Foods because of its gastronomical prices, I ducked in.  Oh, my.  Something about the lighting in there makes every vegetable look especially delicious - heirloom tomatoes with beautiful stripes and weirdly lovely knobbiness, the triple creme cheeses oozing into their packaging, the crisp loaves of bread.  It’s an experience. 

But one you pay dearly for, as my wallet reminded me last night. 

Sometimes though, that which is dear can be worth it – especially if you’re celebrating a bit of cautious good news for a loved one.

In this, my inaugural edition, I’d like give a shout out to my sisters in curves.  It’s summer and – speaking for myself – I’d like to stay as cool as can be in the sweltering swampland known as the greater DC area – yet still look as fresh as possible, sartorially speaking.  Is this a pipe dream?  For me, with my extremely low tolerance for heat and sweat glands the size of drain spouts, the answer is a resounding yes.  But in the spirit of hope for the rest of my girls, I offer my top three suggestions:

• Cute casual dresses, like this one I recently picked up from The Limited.  The picture doesn’t quite do it justice but the halter draws attention to lovely shoulders and pretty decolletage while the a-line skirt provides some swingy sass (without being ginormous).  Love the cobalty blue option too.  Just as I once swore I would never, ever wear capris, I’ve also had to walk back from a previous hardline stance against the maxi dress.  With the right detail, a maxi dress can be all things to all women.  It’s a comfortable option to throw on for day but with the right color, shoes and accessories, it can transition to a more glammed-up evening out.  Imagine this with great gold heels, for instance.
• Nothing says summer like linen.  Semi-fitted linen trousers in a light color and a fitted top with a statement necklace – bam!  You’re ready to check out the Phillips Collection, grab brunch with friends, or smooch your boy during a picnic lunch.  (Of course, ten minutes after you put them on, they’ll be as wrinkled as a pug’s mug but, hey, there are always tradeoffs).
• Finally, I think the long short is critical for the hourglassed among us.  Crisp white shorts and a bright tank top with fun sandals and big shades feel classic to me. 

Of course, no one has insight into another couple’s relationship.  Things that seem lovely on the surface can be rotten underneath.  A playful joke in public can be a mean gibe in private.  There are always concessions and negotiations and flexibility in a relationship, some of which are natural and some that can be untenable. 

And no one can really say what the story is but the news, for some reason, made me feel sad.

After nearly a decade with my sweetie, we have a shared history I treasure.  He knows my stories, my quirks, without no explanation required – and I know his.  We have mastered our own language of intimacy – the ability of long term couples to say just a phrase or a word, to raise an eyebrow or sneak a look, and know precisely what the other person is thinking and feeling.  I can’t imagine what it would be like to begin again, with someone new, to have to learn an entire language with no encyclopedia of shared experiences to reference.  How do you find a new best friend?

And that’s how I feel without even having children yet!

Who else could you turn to and say, “Remember when…” and recall the many memories, small and precious or huge and life-altering, of your sweet babies?  I can’t imagine what would make someone look at his or her spouse of four decades and say, enough.  I hope I never will. 

But here’s to the wish that life is kind to both Al and Tipper, and to all those starting anew, on fresh paths of their own making.

When I was a child, naps were the equivalent of lethal injection for fun.  No reading, no Legos, no running, no friends.  Just your still, dark room, with its tantalizing pleasures – a toy chest just out of reach, a stuffed animal near the dresser – completely off limits.  Your certainty of two things: the shocking cruelty of your parents and the impossibility of you actually falling asleep like they want you to.

In fact, I remember my mother saying in exasperation (no doubt after a protracted bout of whining): When you’re older, you’ll give a lot to take a nap.  You’ll want to lie down.”

I also remember my furious child’s response, hurled in an impotent rage: I will not!  I will never, ever want to nap!!

Flash forward about 27 years and I am a certified nap whore.  I will nap any time, anywhere.  I love getting up early on the weekends, getting some needed errands and gym time and chores out of the way, knowing that later that afternoon, I will be creeping between cool cotton sheets and enjoying what feels like the impossible luxury of a good, deep rest.

Of course, like your typical Catholic, a great weekend nap is – for me, at least – not free from guilt.  “Wake me up in an hour and a half, please,” I say to my dearest. 

“Okay.  But you know you’ll want to sleep longer.”

“It’s true.  But sleeping me is a liar.  Only listen to awake me!  No matter what I tell you when you come downstairs, make sure I get up, okay??”

“Okay.”

There is a ritual sameness about what occurs next.  Beloved boyfriend ventures downstairs and encounters, as he has put it, an inarticulate, drooling beast. 

“Honey, it’s time to get up.”

(inarticulate, annoyed mumbling)

“Do you want to sleep for another hour?”

(snort) “Yes.”

Then, I eventually wake with a start, coming upstairs like a zombie, with my usual cockatiel-like bedhead, to confront the man. 

“Why did you let me sleep so long?!?!” I wail.

“What did you have to do today?” my beloved, the voice of reason, calmly asks.

“Nothing.  But I could have been productive.”

Here, my sweetheart demonstrates admirable restraint, forgoing the opportunity to mention my usual weekend habits: reading, seeing friends, eating frozen yogurt directly from the carton, or possibly taking up residence on the couch for a (shameful) marathon of Real Housewives of New York City viewing.

I am lucky.

Lately, in our house, I’ve noticed that when I turn one light on, the other doesn’t follow suit as it normally does.  Its graceful arms, with tulip-like bulbs on the end, stay dark.  This may have been happening for awhile – I can’t say for sure.  As anyone who knows me can tell you, I’m not the most observant of people.  (Quick story – when I was little, Mom teaches me to do the laundry and I am SO PROUD of myself for remembering when to put the rinse in, each and every time, since she emphasized it so much.  So, doing the laundry for over a month and she happens to be downstairs and asks, Did you forget something?  Oh yes, gentle readers.  The soap.  For a full month.  But the rinse?  In every time).

At any rate, this lamp has now taken to turning on at random times.  Hmm, I say to myself, that’s so odd.  As it happens more and more, I begin to say, Uncle B, is that you?  Secretly, I feel pleased.  It’s nice to have a visitor!

Last night, I leave to pick E up from the subway and turn off the light switch.  The one lamp obediently behaves and the other stays lit.  Well, I think, I’ll just tell E about it.  He’ll know what to do.

We walk into the house and I tell him about our unseen visitor and he points down at the outlet.  One word: timer.

“What did you think – it was magic?” he asked, tears of laughter starting to gather in eyes.

“Well..(tones of indignation)…yes!”

I maintain my explanation was more fun.

I’m always struck by something different and this time was no exception. 

In a small glass case, there was a small cloth brooch.  Despite the years, you could still see how pretty it was – the pink of the faded flowers and the green leaves surrounding them.  The explanation beside it broke my heart – in one of the concentration camps, a man and his children had traded their rations with another prisoner for the brooch, to give as a birthday gift to their mother.

Think about this for a moment.  Yes, it was a birthday gift – a symbol of their love and tenderness.  But I also saw that brooch as defiance.  In the midst of systematic, horrific treatment – nearly unimaginable to me – these people were saying, you can’t take everything from us.  In that little gift, in those once-vibrant petals, I read a fierce, ungovernable will to cling to their humanity, to preserve a shred of normalcy.  Stripped of autonomy that is guaranteed us by the simple virtue of being human, this man and his children demonstrated indomitable spirit. 

Their torturers thought they’d taken everything from them – all choice, all comfort, all freedom.  But with the act of giving up the meager rations that kept them just on the edge of life, with their generous impulse, they kept something essential: the spark, the very essence of themselves.

But this afternoon, DC experienced the worst metrorail accident in its history.  Six commuters, on their way home or to run errands, thinking about nothing more than the day’s little occurrences, their families, their responsibilities, dinner, died.  Dozens more were injured.  Almost all, it’s probably safe to say, were terrified.  And there was the second-string of worry that spun out from the accident’s epicenter.  The am I sure I know where X is today?   Do I know anyone who rides that stretch? 

Certainly, the dissolution of a marriage and its effect on a once-happy family is a personal tragedy in the sense that it’s, well, cruelly, awfully, terribly personal to those involved.  A bomb that floats almost lazily through the warm, sweet-scented memories of happier times, coming to rest before exploding just a second later.  But though devestating to those involved, this divorce – playing out as it is on the small screen – is just that: small.

Forgetting that – in the wake of the lives that were lost, the people that will never come home to their families (fractured or not), the heartache that comes from losing someone you love in such a wrenching, absolute and immediate way - would really be tragic.