Living As All of Me

[HannahOne]

The Pilates class was AMAZING and I am going back on Monday!

There was a male teacher and two men in the class. The teacher was humble and made jokes throughout. He stayed on his mat and corrected verbally when needed. The room was beautiful and light. Everyone was kind. A woman handed me a ring when I needed one.

Afterward I felt so alive. Not exhausted and sore like after weightlifting or elliptical. Just alive. I have been reading a bit about Joseph Pilates and his method is very interesting. It's about opposites, balance, vitality, mind-body connection. I was a bit dubious about Pilates as in the last I associated it with my time in LA and the "keep it tight" ladies. But it's nothing to do with appearance actually. It's about presence and a way of being alive, like an animal. Joe even talks about animals and "pandiculation" which is somewhat akin to Peter Levine's animal post-trauma tremors. I'm here for it.

New obsession unlocked. Dopamine and happiness ensues.

[HannahOne]

Talking with some friends today about food got me thinking. I have mini potatoes and broccoli in the air fryer right now and I just mixed up a Greek yogurt sauce with lemon juice, garlic and salt. I'll swirl the yogurt sauce on the plate and put the vegetables on top. Yum.

I can make what I want. I can buy what I need. I can have my yum.

Growing up there wasn't enough food. A few red delicious apples in the fridge, a head of iceberg. A bag of white bread. I'd eat the bread one raw slice at a time, rolled up into a ball so it had more bite to it. Eat the head of lettuce for dinner watching Popeye. It didn't make me strong. Eat the apple, hoping another would magically appear before I got hungry again.

After my sibling was born when I was almost 7, there was more food. More often a PBJ or a bowl of cheerios with milk poured for me. And more to forage from as needed. The occasional chicken and rice left me sitting at the table in the dark till 9 pm, refusing to eat it. I don't know why. Once I sat there till midnight.

Sometimes I still ate the dog biscuits for old time's sake.

By the time I was twelve the fridge was generally full and more meals. I didn't like the meals. After growing up on raw cereal and apples, a big bowl of chili was revolting. I started making my own meals from what we had. Or didn't eat.

In college appeared the miracle of the cafeteria. You could push your tray down a line and rows and rows of steaming hot food, take as much as you want, only what you want. I lived abroad for a year in England and France. The figs! The goat cheese! The Indian curry! The BREAD! Picking rosemary off the mountain side right before a goat went to grab it, and putting the leaves of it in my tomato sauce. That was the life.

I got married a month after graduating. I walked to the grocery every day. My poor partner was subjected to a variety of awful dishes but ate without complaint. I learned over time. When the kids came along it was breastmilk, then homemade sweet potato puree, organic everything. As they grew, chicken pot pies, homemade chicken noodle soup, and their favorite, tacos. We followed Ellen Satter, division of responsibility. I chose where they ate and when, at the table at meal and snack times. They chose what to eat and how much. Always deconstructed meals, with the chicken pot pie always bread, salad, always a "safe" food." No one left hungry. No one sat there for hours alone in the dark. I ate what they liked. Tacos, ok fine.

A few years ago a friend hosted me for lunch on a regular basis. I loved the food and started making it myself. She ate Mediterranean style, for health, but it was so delicious. Lentil soups, goat cheese salads, salmon and potatoes, steamed green beans with garlic. Hence this yogurt and vegetable meal I'm having now. Very South of France. Thank you, kind friend, for feeding me so many lunches. I guess part of me was still a hungry kid.

All grown up now, my kids male their own meals. Today I entered the kitchen to find the oldest singing opera and frying up a steak. The youngest was fake crying loudly, apparently to make the dog feel guilty. I had to check it wasn't real crying. Nope. No crying here. That one opened the fridge and started pulling out vegetables. I had plans for those vegetables... I kept quiet. Half an hour later she presented a stir fry. Yum.