Surviving the Diet of the 1970s

I thought orange juice and Tang, a sugary drink made from dusty yellow powder, were the same thing until I was in high school. Of course Tang was marketed as what the astronauts drank, so that made it ok.

A New York Strip, perfectly grilled, delicately sliced into a bite sized morsel with a sharp knife, a tiny drop of peppercorn sauce quivering on the surface as I lift it to my mouth with a fork, juicy flavor flowing around my tongue, making me reluctant to swallow as it melts away.

That was the 50 dollar steak I had the other night. It was fantastic.

I didn't have a good steak until well into my 20s. In my experience, steak was always fatty and required endless chewing before you could swallow it. I'd heard it could be grilled, but my mother always prepared it in a frying pan. I don't think we even had a grill in my childhood home.

My family was pretty well off. We had the biggest house on the street. We had 3 cars. We  took nice vacations with our motor home and spent culturally uplifting weekends in the city. We had a swimming pool in the back yard. My siblings and I expected to be sent to college. We didn't show off, but we were clearly not poor.

So it baffled us that Mom scrimped and saved pennies as if we were still in the Great Depression. We existed on the cheapest cuts of meat and the lowest quality store brand instant foods. The milk we drank as children was made from powder in a box. It was terrible. I hate drinking milk to this day, and will only put Vitamin D whole milk on my cereal. I thought orange juice and Tang, a sugary drink made from dusty yellow powder, were the same thing until I was in high school. Of course Tang was marketed as what the astronauts drank, so that made it ok.

I don't think it was just my mom. In the 1970s, between inflation and middle class mothers going to work outside the home, nutrition was a secondary consideration compared to saving money and saving time.

Vegetables? Always canned. I didn't set my eyes upon fresh asparagus until I was in college. Green beans were soft and squishy as were peas. Exotic vegetables were the mushy "Chinese" variety in the can of chow mien purchased from the ethnic shelf at the grocery store.  I'll never forget my first water chestnut.

Today's moms would shudder at the nutritional value of what we ate as children: sugar coated cereals (preferably generic), lifeless white iceberg lettuce dressed up with fake bacon bits and Nebraska's famous Dorothy Lynch salad dressing, as much Kool-Aid as we could drink (in place of expensive carbonated sodas), dry Hydrox cookies (cheaper than Oreos), and sandwiches made from big yellow blocks of Velveeta imitation cheese-like substance along with Miracle Whip spread (not mayonnaise) and the store's cheapest (whitest) bread.

For the record, there was no such thing as "gluten free." We'd never heard of a Vegan. Vegetarians were hippies that lived out in far away California.

It's not like we weren't cared for. Mom made sure we had 3 solid meals a day. We never missed a breakfast, lunch, or dinner. We'd even get a special treat every now and then. For example, we'd occasionally get a Tony's frozen pizza with bits of pepperoni or something that passed for sausage on top.

If Mom needed a break, Dad would pick up a bag of McDonalds hamburgers and fries. He never got cokes though - we saved money by washing those fries down with Kool-Aid or Tang.

I'm a little surprised that obesity rates are higher now. That probably has to do with the amount of moving around that kids did then compared to now. There were only 3 channels on the TV. We didn't have computers and iPhones so we had time to go outside and run off all that fat and sugar.

Reflections on a French Honeymoon

"Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer."

As we get back into our normal lives of work and piles of laundry, the past month recedes into a happy memory. We loved our wedding. The best part was having our loved ones all together as we celebrated. Clyde and I followed that with some honeymooning in France, seeing the sights of Paris, lounging poolside on the Riviera, kicking back beach side, and napping in comfortable hotel rooms. The latter we were able to do without the feline company we have at home, what we've come to call "catus interruptus," the sudden need for attention cats have whenever humans lie down together. But that's a subject for another time.

France is just as great as they say it is. It's beautiful and romantic. It's dripping with history. There is much to see. Naturally I came away with some observations and generalizations:

• You really can just sit and relax over food and coffee at an outdoor cafe, taking in the sights as well as second hand smoke from others' cigarettes. People smoke a lot more over there.
• Is there any place more appropriate for a romance than the French Riviera? It felt like James Bond or Brigitte Bardot might walk by at any moment, having just stepped off one of the giant yachts anchored nearby. 
• The French are very stylish and beautiful. They dress well. The only people wearing shorts out on the street are tourists. Upon coming home, I'm very aware of what slobs Americans are. I include myself in that observation.
• Many French have cute little dogs, at least in the urban places we visited. I swear, they seem to yap with a French accent and a bit of stylish attitude.
• France is a capitalist western country where bejeweled shoppers rush by homeless people outside the high-end shops of the Champs Elysee, just like you'd see on Fifth Avenue in New York or 16th Street in Denver.   
• Paris has that feel of a huge walking city, people from all over the world, constant movement, and human drama all around. It's a little like New York City, except it doesn't smell like urine and the people are nicer.
• Subways. I love subways.
• Of course, some things are universal. People everywhere have their noses pointed at smart phones, only glancing up enough to see where they should be going.
• Remember that old Marianne Faithfull song, The Ballad of Lucy Jordan? "She realized she'd never ride through Paris in a sports car with the warm wind in her hair." Well suck it Lucy. I got to do it. Ok, it was on top of a big double deck tourist bus instead of a sports car, but still ... And please, no comments about the amount of hair the wind may or may not have blown through on my particular head. 

I miss eating in France. Not just the food, but the act of eating. You don't just fill the hole in your face in France. You sit, you converse, you savor. You don't eat out before an evening out. Eating out is the evening out. The waiter doesn't rush you out the door by bringing you the check before you are finished. You are expected to linger as long as you need to before asking the waiter to bring you the check. It's a whole different outlook.

But the food itself - it's so much better over there.

The pastry is flakier. The fruit is sweeter. The cream is somehow creamier. The butter is butterier. The cheese is cheesier. The coffee richer, without a hint of bitterness. Even the pre-prepared sandwiches in the convenience stores are made with fresher ingredients, as if just in from the farm. Even the cheap roadside frozen soft serve is better than what we have here.

And don't get me started on the bread. Before going to France, I used to look forward to scones in my office building cafeteria. Now, I can barely look at them. American bread is crap. I don't know why the French make it so much better. Maybe they just demand it fresher and don't tolerate it after it's a day old. I don't know. But seeing overcooked, plastic wrapped cinnamon rolls baked Godonlyknowswhen, made my stomach lurch this morning. And the coffee at work? Forget it.

Travel normally makes me appreciate home. Well, in spite of the lower quality of naps, it's good to see the cats. And it feels great to be married on any continent.

As for the rest, I guess I'll just have to power down the car window and stick my head out to feel the wind blow through my hair.

Dangerous Cake Obsession Causes Loss of Control

I have no control when it comes to cake.

Seriously.

At the office, if I hear there's cake in the break room, I single-mindedly zero in, nearly knocking people over if they get between me and that moist, spongy confection with sticky, sweet frosting. After I chow down (think Cookie Monster without the blue fur), I'm immediately overcome by regret. I don't recognize the obsessed person that I temporarily became. In shame, I slink back to my desk.

It doesn't matter how full I am, or if I'm on a diet, or already had dessert, if there's cake, I'm there.

When I was a kid and my grandmother served cake, I'd boldly ask her if I could take some home. My parents were appalled at my audacity, but we always left with cake in hand.

Sometimes coworkers, who I suspect of secretly being vegan, bring a plate of fruit to celebrate a birthday instead of cake. What kind of birthday is that? I like pineapple and strawberries as much as the next person. I can live without honeydew. But who prefers fruit to cake? Certain members of my family always request pie instead of cake for their birthday. That's only marginally better than fruit.

A coworker recently got married. I asked about the cake at the reception and he said they didn't have one. It took a moment for that to sink in.

Wedding receptions are a place where I expect to have cake. Preferably, white cake with white frosting and little soft, flower shaped candies on the side. If you have to make your wedding reception different, skip the hokey pokey. But for God's sake, give your guests cake.

Cake is not only good to eat, it is versatile. Cake can be designed to look like anything. It can be made to look like a football, cartoon characters, even scanned photographs.  One of my earliest memories is a cake someone made in the shape of our church. Even now, if I go by my childhood church, my mouth waters.

When I was on Weight Watchers, I was appalled to learn that cake was one of the worst things I could eat. It has more fat and calories than almost anything else I love. Only pizza is worse. Life is hard.

My favorite cake in the world is the Chantilly cake from Whole Foods. A white, moist cake interspersed with strawberries and blueberries, it is infused with a light whipped creamy frosting. Note, there is room for fruit with cake, just not instead of cake.

Perhaps sometime I will write about frosted sugar cookies. How can you have Christmas without them?

Dreams Interrupted

Dreams can give lots of insight. In the drives for passion and food, for example, what do you suppose my dreams say about me?

I am standing in line at McDonalds contemplating the consumption of a big mac, fries, and a diet (of course) coke. Suddenly, a sexy man cuts into line in front of me, turns around, and, well, let's just say that, as usual, I wake up before it gets really good.

What sticks with me is not just the vivid nature of the dream but the utter disappointment which occurred when a cat's cold nose entered my ear and woke me up. Most of the frustration was not that the man part of the dream was interrupted, though it was certainly vivid and ended prematurely. Instead, I was distressed about waking up before I got to eat that food.

You see, it's been over a year since I've eaten a big mac. Since starting Weight Watchers 18 months ago, I've only been to McDonalds once and that was because I was stranded at an airport for several hours and had a voucher to use.

 I know that McDonalds is not on anyone's list of fine foods. Even among fast food and burgers, it doesn't measure up to finer chains like Fat Burger and Five Guys and Smash Burger. Colorado may soon have In-N-Out Burger, but big macs are here now. You can find McDonalds virtually everywhere, and the quality is consistent - you know what you are getting every time.

When I used to eat approximately one big mac every ten days, I'd remove the pickles and the excess lettuce and squeeze on a single packet of ketchup. I'd hold all the layers in place as I took that first bite. Exquisite.

Big macs are probably the single worst thing you can eat. Well, it's probably worse to eat a whole pizza at a single sitting, which I also used to do, but I'll save that for another essay. Besides, I don't dream about pizza. I dream about those two all-beef patties, special sauce, and all that other stuff.

Occasionally, I consider splurging on a mac, but I'm kind of proud of my months of denial. Plus, if I have to blow that many Weight Watcher points, I'd rather really go all out on something spectacular like, well, a Fat Burger.

I'm sorry, were you hoping for more about the other part of the dream?

PostBlog from Scottsbluff – Pigging Out in the Panhandle

You might think it strange to take a 24 hour road trip to Scottsbluff, Nebraska with the primary goal of eating a lot of local food. Well, I never denied being strange. This is what my friend Brian and I did a couple weekends ago.

Highlights of the eat-fest included a Scotty’s cinnamon glacier - ice cream mixed with a slushee and flavored with cinnamon. It tasted like Christmas. It was totally worth the drive.

Of course when in Nebraska, one must have a Runza - seasoned beef and cabbage cooked inside delicious, doughy bread. We also sampled some of the delectable local Mexican cuisine, and had a delightful breakfast at a greasy diner.

We were pleased to be accompanied by my niece and sister-in-law who reside in the area. When it comes to eating, I can always depend on my family. Every event with my dad or my siblings centers around food. Every holiday, birthday, actually any gathering for any reason – we never miss a meal. Even when one of us is in the hospital, we don’t  forget to eat.

Wherever two or three Calkins are gathered, I always say, there is food also. Our obsession with food isn't limited to just consuming vast amounts of it. We use food to show love.

 After going through surgery a while back, before he was fully conscious, my dad sent me out to get him a chocolate malt from Cold Stone. I got one for myself as well so he wouldn’t have to eat alone. That’s just the kind of guy I am.

The afternoon of a different surgery he asked for two éclairs from Lamars - the kind with frosting filling, not pudding, per his exact specifications. The nurse said he wouldn't be hungry so soon after surgery. Clearly she didn't know who she was dealing with.

I've been more or less on Weight Watchers for the past year. I do weigh less than when I started and I look pretty good. When, after losing 30 pounds, I visited my dad, he said he was proud that I'd lost so much weight. He then proceeded to pull out cheese and crackers, chips and dips, olives, and beverages for us to consume before heading out for dinner.

It's not just my dad. It's all of us. On those rare occasions when my sister comes to visit me, the highlight is often a trip to Whole Foods where we buy little samples of cheese, some crackers, maybe some potsticker dumplings to snack on. One time we bought an entire cake (moist, with fresh berries in the whipped cream filling) for just the two of us. And let me tell you, it was good.

I have to admit that it's not just when I'm with family. I make food part of many routines in my life. For example, one of the locations of my gym just happens to be next door to Whole Foods. It seems only natural that after working out, I should head over to the store's deli for a specialty sandwich (turkey, fig jam, greens, and brie on a club roll). And while I'm there, how can I not go by the bakery and pick up a couple of those big, fresh chocolate chip cookies? I have just come from the gym, after all, so eating these treats won't make that much difference.

You see, while showing love to others with food, I've also learned love myself.