Tasting Food Again for the First Time

I’m re-tasting familiar food for the first time, through new taste buds.  Spices have become the joy of my palate, and my body knows what it wants, and when it needs it. 

Who knew that cinnamon is sweet on its own!  I looked in my spice cabinet tonight, and the cinnamon is what I saw (even though I look at it every day).  I reached out, and poured some on my plate, and tasted it raw.  It was sweet!  I never knew it was sweet on its own (and I have tried it many times).  I had only had it mixed with sugar.  But sugar is not in my life anymore.  And I am tasting food for the first time, the way God intended it to be tasted.

Cayenne Red Pepper is my new best flavor.  I add it, and Tabasco, wing sauce, and Frank’s Red hot sauce, to many things that I eat.  When I make an omelet, I am having a little egg with my Cayenne.  When I eat meat, no matter what’s it seasoned with, I add hot sauce.  I love it.  I chew on jalapeno peppers.  My fridge door is a connoisseur of hot sauce.

Inflammation in the body is down.  My face is no longer carb puffed.  I feel light; I feel nothing in my stomach, or belly, where I always felt heaviness before.  I am not weighed down, I feel light on my feet.  No longer am I addicted to bread, I don’t eat pasta, and I no longer desire it, even when I see it being eaten by people around me.

 

Give me some fat.  Give me the saturated fat, which allows my body to release fat cells from my body, and flush them away.  Let the fat fill me, along with the protein, from natural sources, that makes my brain happy!  Give me clarity, give me freedom.  Let me soak it up.  Bring me back to the happiness of a baby, who is eating the right food, the natural food, the ketogenic food, of mother’s milk.

Let me research.  Let me learn.  Let me be amazed at what the body can do, when given the right fuel. Let me see how the body can repair itself, when the bad food is taken away, and replaced with good, natural, Keto food.  Let me read how diabetes and heat disease are reversed with this way of eating.  Let me read how Cancer, that evil cancer, is prevented, and active cases improved by this Keto lifestyle. 

    

Let me fast.  Let me go hours, without hunger, without food, without need for food.  Let my body feed off of last years pizza, ice cream, bread, and carb foods, that entered my body as indulgence, and stayed as fat.  Let me thrive, be awake, not need daily afternoon naps anymore.  Let me wake up in the morning awake, not tired, not wanting to climb back into bed.  Let me eat natural, as God intended it, as our ancestors ate.

Let me exercise.  Let me push further.  Let me last longer, even without eating first.  Let me train, and seek out more.  Let me walk up hills, reach max heart rate, reach euphoric highs. 

Let me walk away from granola bars, pretzels, chips, crackers, bread, grains, cake, muffins, cookies, flavored popcorn, MSG, Maltodextrin, High Fructose Corn Syrup, juice, and sugar.  Let me happily pass them by, no longer ruling my addiction to carbs, more carbs, never wanting to stop eating more, never feeling satisfied.  Let the headaches leave, let them never return.  Let the stomach aches be a pain of the past, now forgotten.  Let me be satisfied with my food.  Let me be free.  Let me live the Keto life, and never look back.

Morning Glory

I get out of bed thirsty, and run downstairs to get a glass of water.  I drink it down, and refill it, and drink it down again.  I start to refill it again, and then decide to just bring the whole pitcher with the glass upstairs.  I get up to the room, the room where we were sleeping an hour ago.  He is now long gone, off to work, his mind moved onto meetings, and plans, and train rides. 

I make the bed and pull the blanket up exactly square, and placed the pillows evenly.

I pick up the basket off the floor, and stand there folding the towels into perfect halves, and then perfect squares, and stack them up in a neat pile.  I am obsessed, with the corners meeting, the sizes stacked in order, the piles aligning square to the bed. 

I go to the machine, pick up the dirty clothes, and spray the spots with pre-spot.  I fold the sprayed clothes in half and put them into the basket, awaiting the next load.  Then I put the previously sprayed load in to the machine, adding soap, and brightener.   I listen to the dryer tumbling, waiting for the beep, when I can unload the clean, warm, clothes. I put them in the clean basket, bring them to the bed, and dump them out on top.  Then I begin to fold, sorting by child, making five piles, and two more piles for mom and dad. 

I finish folding and putting more laundry in.  I wash the hand washing items and hang them to dry.  I continuously listen to my playlist on YouTube.  I revel in the silence, before the storm of children wake up and say, “Mommy, I’m hungry, what’s for breakfast, I’m thirsty, can you make breakfast now…?”

I realize that I actually enjoy folding laundry; because I can make it do what I want, quietly, and make it look pretty.  Then I can put it away and it’s gone, off my bed.  My neat, clean, bed, with perfect corners.  For about 5 minutes.

 

In comes the storm.  She jumps on the bed, and rolls around on the pillows.  She giggles, and smiles, while messing up my corners.  I let her. 

By some miracle, she doesn’t ask for food, she just goes into her brother’s room with the others, and starts to play.  I go back into my room, close my white door, listen to my music on my phone until the battery dies, then I plug it in.  I think about my room, my space, and start to organize the magazines on the dresser, the magazines I never have time to read.  But they look nice in their neatly stacked pile. The pile stacked with hope, of someday, sitting on a beach and reading them, looking at the glossy pictures, of perfect days, miraculously coordinated outfits, with $300 accessories, and nothing real about them.

Seeing as it is still quiet, I continue on my closet organizing project, looking through the clothes and deciding what to keep, and what to give away.  I start to try on some clothes and make piles.  Mid-outfit change, the phone rings.  It’s the doctor’s office.  I realize that if I’m going to talk on the phone, and look at my schedule at the same time, I have to go downstairs.  I go downstairs to the computer, in my underwear.  I hope no one wakes up and sees me, and says, very confused, “Mom,” what are you doing?”  That is exactly what they would say, if I did anything absurd.  When they do something absurd, I have stopped questioning it.  

I get down to the computer, and make three physical appointments for the kids, and note that the next child’s isn’t due until November.  She says they aren’t scheduling November appointments now, so I will need to call back in late August.  I hope I remember to call back before January (it’s happened before). I go back upstairs and get dressed, before the kids notice me.  Maybe I can have a few more minutes of quiet.  

Memories of Myles

It's coming up on the anniversary of Myles' death, following his car accident.  He was my choir director, and friend.  I still think about him sometimes, especially when I am cantoring at church. I remember his kind smile, his warm greetings, how he guided me as a singer.  And sometimes, I ask him to pray or intercede for me when I am singing.

Here is the Eulogy I wrote for his funeral:

Myles, your life was a gift to the people of Saint Leo’s, and all the other churches where you directed choirs.  You shared your talent with us, and your love of music inspired us to grow in faith.  As you are in heaven, playing music with Bach, and the angels, we will carry on your legacy.  You have many friends, from many places.  Your life got cut short in the middle of several ongoing conversations that were never finished.  But we have our memories of you, and those we will keep.

Your spirit is alive in the music.  You are gone, but I can still see you.  I can still hear you.  I can still remember you, like you are here beside me, talking to me.  I can still see you take a sip of your water bottle between songs, I can still listen to the comments you make, your words of encouragement.   I can still feel your love of music, the way you improvise on the organ, the way you tap your feet on the pedals, your artistic style.

One night this spring you and I stayed after rehearsal to practice one of the songs from the Glory and Praise Book.  We didn’t just practice that one song.  We went through half the book, and part of another volume.  We were having a great time, so we practiced for an extra hour and a half, all for the love of music.

Over the summer you would make me accompaniment files to practice with and to use on Sundays. One time you mentioned that you were listening to talk radio in the background while you made the accompaniment.   You had once told me you were into politics.  Little did I know at the time, but I found out after your death, that you had quite a following on the Howie Carr Show.

You also keep us on our toes.  We had been singing the mass of Resurrection for months.  So that’s what the singer expects, we have our paperclip on the page, and the numbers circled.  Then one day, about 10 seconds before the Holy, Holy, you said, “we are switching to Mass of Creation now." I frantically tried to find the page number but couldn’t find it.  I was panicking, and you just said “Here we go, you know it” and started to play the intro.  Luckily, I did remember the music once you started to play.  There was never a dull moment with you Myles.

You were like a Musical Father to me.  You were gentle, encouraging, and you would challenge me.  A few times you had me come up with my own tune for the Gospel Acclimation.  You let me do what I didn’t know I was capable of.   You helped me grow in confidence, and acceptance of my own voice.

You did this for everyone; you brought out the best in us.  You smiled at us.  You stopped to say hello every time you saw us, and that alone is worth a lot.  I never wanted to miss Choir Rehearsal Myles, not just because of the music, but because of you.  You made me feel important.  You made me feel loved.  You made me feel cared for.  I will remember you forever, and I will always miss you.  I have the greatest respect for you, and I will continue to sing for you.  Myles, it was a privilege to know you. Thank you for your friendship Myles, Thank you.

What about those they leave behind?

I am hesitant to talk to the new priest at my church.  Hesitant to get to know him, trust him, talk on a personal level with him, because if I do, I will experience a loss.

Within the space of two years, I lost a Monsignor, and an Associate.  Monsignor had baptized most of my children, had watched them grow, and knew them all my heart and name.  Then he retired. We had a goodbye party for him.  We wished him well, and smiled and hugged him.  Some of the older ladies were crying.

In came the new Pastor.  He was musical.  He played keyboard for me when I was singing, and no one else could play.  He was young compared to Monsignor.  He was modern.

The associate was still there.  He knew me by heart – as in the contents of my heart – the pain, the joy, the sorrow, the tears, the suffering, and the love.

He had listened to my most guarded thoughts, mistakes, and errors.  He had counseled me, and become the instrument to give me God’s forgiveness.  I trusted him, needed him, and was comforted by him.  And then he was gone – transferred, no longer here.  And my heart was broken.

In came the new associate – shining, exuberant, and wonderful.  He was open, available, loving and forgiving.  And I wanted nothing to do with him.

I am guarded; I am smiling - on the outside.   I am shaking hands and thanking him on the way out of mass.  And I am revealing nothing, at least not purposely.

A year has gone by.  I am just now starting to trust him. I am considering revealing myself a little at a time, a small piece here, holding back there.  I am scared, not wanting to be judged.  I am conflicted.  Because part of me knows, as soon as I let go, fully trust, and become honest with this man (which takes a long time for me,) he will be gone.  They will transfer him away, and send someone else.

And I will want nothing to do with the new priest.

I am aware that this man is only a representative of God.  But he's as close to knowing God as I can get. Because he is here, he is listening, forgiving, sacrificing, and praying - for me.

I know God is here, he created me, he loves me, and I am precious to him. But I can't see him, or hear directly from him, or interpret what he is saying.  I need a priest for that.  And I know that I never did thank my priest enough, or give him enough, (I like to give gifts, at holidays, and after particularly helpful counseling).  But I won't forget him, or forget about him, and what he has done for me.  I will miss him.  I will wish him well in his new assignment.  I will pray for him.  And I will talk to my new priest.