It's All Up to YOU

It is said that no one can make it alone—we all need help to survive.  This is true in most cases, but when it comes to the battles that lie within the souls of all of us, there is only room for one to be the savior, the liberator, the hero.  We walk the road alone and are given the awesome task of bringing what is needed to us to change and to make the differences needed in many cases to survive.  We are not always successful and so we find ourselves digging deeper and deeper into the hole of ourselves to find the answers needed and many times fall to the wayside frustrated, wounded and defeated.  But we can’t give up, we can’t throw our hands up in the air and say “Oh well, I tried but it’s useless,” because if we do we are doomed.

            If we fail and fall down we can take a moment to suffer defeat, but then we must summon all of our strength to pick ourselves up and start again. 

It is not easy finding the solutions needed to bring change to the mess that we have allowed for so long it has become the norm.  We develop habits and when those habits become the source of defeat and hurt us time and time again, we have to find a way to make a change but change is sometimes a fearful thing and change is always brought with some level of difficulty.  It is one thing to make a quality decision to make changes in ourselves when we are confident, self-assured and full of personal resources, but when the change has to come from a damaged, weeping soul—it is difficult and all too many times it creates so much pain and discomfort we lose what little strength we possess in trying to hold on to the vision we created to help launch it.  We are the keepers of our soul and only we can recognize the needs in our lives that merit adjustment and alteration.  Just like a wedding dress needs several fittings before it is flawless and ready for that perfect day, we are constantly trying on the things that make us and many times we must amend and fine tune the fibers that create our universe until we reach that happy place where we are content.  There is a bridge between the place of who we are and who we long to become.  Many times it is hidden and we have to search for it, but all too often it is right there in front of us, waiting for us to just open our eyes and make the journey across it.  

A No Diet Resolution

I hear people talk about their new year’s resolutions a lot right now and I’d say most of them are about weight loss.  “I got  some weight I’d like to get rid of.”  “Oh you know I over did it over the holidays!  I gained so much weight I got to get if off.”  Then they go on talking about what diet they’re on—the low carb diet, the low fat diet, the cabbage soup diet, the body shape diet, the diet that actress was on who lost all that weight.  Of course they have to get into exercise, somebody walks while the other one goes to the gym, another one has a treadmill at home that gives her a real good workout.  It’s all the hype right now at the beginning of a new year and everyone is fired up, determined to make this year the year they actually follow through and get the weight off.  But by Valentine’s Day, when the chocolates hearts are dangling in the seasonal aisle at the grocery store and all of those candy boxes are staring us down when we shop, it’s going to change, it always does.  Somebody is going to crack from not having any sugar, another one is going cave from lack of pasta and one by one the New Year’s brigade of dieters is going to abandon ship and start pocketing the chocolate.  Once the chocolate becomes okay then they’ll start thinking of that nice romantic meal they have to make and how it’s okay because it’s Valentine’s Day, for goodness sake.  And then it begins, all over again. 

Why can’t people stop trying to diet and just want to eat healthy? 

It stands to reason that diets don’t work, the mere fact that we keep having to go on a diet is proof of that.  Some people aren't as bad as others, while one man may gain twenty pounds at Christmas time, his month at fitness and exercise before the big Chocolate Heart parade may be enough to get those unwanted pounds off but for another woman, her trouble begins when she gains ten pounds over the holidays.  Her battle is intense to lose a pound a week and by week five she gets hit in the face with a box of chocolates from her husband and she isn’t interested in losing weight until after Valentine’s Day, then comes Easter then her birthday,  a summer cruise, Halloween and before she knows it, it’s Christmas time again and she has gained another ten pounds over the ten she never lost from last year.  We’re always going to find reasons to over eat and splurge on candy, cookies and cake, to dive blindly into a buffet glistening with high fats and over processed foods we know are bad for us.    So Instead of trying to deny ourselves of the goodies we love until we lose the weight we gained for eating too much of them, wouldn’t it make more sense to  want to change what we’re putting in our bodies and to make healthy modifications to keep us on track all of the time? 

Being Healthy means making a commitment to lifelong changes, not a diet of sacrifice that only holds us in between seasons.

The way we eat is a choice we make all on our own.  Sometimes we just get lazy and don’t take the time to cook for ourselves, we worship the Golden Arches and pay tribute to the king of fast food.  Who wants to go home and have to defrost chicken and bake it up in a pan when you can just stop at the colonel’s?  Even at the grocery stores now they are preparing foods for us or we just go into the frozen foods and choose the frozen, fatty, processed nutritional nightmares.  No fad diet is easy it requires time and planning.  So why do we expect life to be any different? 

Chocolate does not kill people, but people go into overkill with chocolate. 

It’s like that with a lot of foods.  I have always been told to eat like a skinny person but in my life I have seen skinny people grow into not so skinny people.  Some people are extremely disciplined and I appreciate that but eating 4 almonds for breakfast with black coffee?  Please, that won’t work for me.  And I have also seen people who preach moderation who are really good in some cases, but when it comes to particular foods, I’ve seen their moderation go right out the window.  I think possessing the ability to be able to eat a sliver of cake and be satisfied is a good thing, but I’ve seen many a diabetic go for ‘just a little piece’ and walk away with the shakes or feeling quite ill, then turn around and go for it again.  There are just some things we have to face the fact about; we just can’t eat them.  I had a friend in Louisiana who was allergic to shell fish; the woman never stopped when her face swelled up, she didn’t pause when her stomach was the size of the pot they were boiling the crawfish in.  When she started to have trouble breathing, she went for a Benadryl tablet, and you’d think she’d walk away.  Not without a take home box where I’m sure he went through the same thing.  It’s crazy right?  But I’ve seen people with wheat allergies do the same thing, lactose intolerants suffer through cramps and diarrhea just for their favorite treat.

 When do we stop hurting ourselves for that temporary piece of feel good that sometime makes us so sick we can’t function?

I've been without breads, pastas and sugar for two months now and I feel the difference.   I’m not suffering with stomach problems, no nervousness, fits of moodiness and depression.  No skin rash, whelps or yeast infections.  I know these foods are hurting me, so why would I ever want to go back to them again?  It’s the same thing with excessive servings of butter, oils and other unhealthy foods.  I am in a place now eating wholesome foods, fresh vegetables and fruit, no dairy except for Greek yogurt and incorporating healthy whole grains into my meals.  Why would I want to go back to eating the other stuff and feeling bad again?  I don’t want to and I am aware of the fact that being healthy takes work.  Planning, prepping, preparing healthy meals—that’s work.  I can’t allow myself to get lazy and I can’t allow myself to believe the lie that if I eat those things again, it will make me feel better.  Healthy is in how we eat, in the changes we make and the choices we take.  

The Fat Lady’s Workout

        There are Challenges going across the internet to make you stronger and fit; squats, burpees, marathons.  I find myself excited about the possibility and motivated to enter in.  The first one that caught my eye was the squat, but considering my size and my limitations, I wasn’t exactly squat worthy.  Not wanting to be left out or touted as the fat, disabled woman who can’t do much of anything, I made it my business to enter in.  I needed to find a way to do a squat, howbeit ever so altered, so that I could join in on the challenge.  I found myself standing and sitting in my chair—that lasted all of six times and I was feeling muscles in my thighs and butt that rang out in a chorus of pain.  Then I moved to the walker—stand, squat, stand, squat—yeah, that was even harder.  I put pillows on the bed and sat high then stood up, this would have worked if the pillows had not crumbled to the floor every time I stood.  I leaned against the wall and slid to a squat—once was all I could do of that.  I was about to give up when I saw the ball; the big red stability ball my chiropractor told me to use to stretch my back and just sit on when my back hurt to relieve the pressure.  It’s a big ball, the biggest they make—after pumping and pumping with his foot on a bicycle pump, my husband was having serious leg cramps and crying for the Tylenol and had to take it to the gasoline station to be filled.  Now the ball has possibilities—not only is it high enough for me to sit on without knee pain, it has bounce—serious bounce.  As soon as I got it situated between the sofa and the wall and knew it wasn’t going to be rolling anywhere, I gave it a whirl.  With the walker in front of me for support, I pumped twenty five squats, no problem!  I was so tickled, I celebrate with my favorite “woo hoo!” and ran to my daughter’s room to brag about my accomplishment.  Then to prove it to her, I pulled the ball into the living room to give her a sample of my fabulousness—I did another twenty five and we both echoed in “woo hoo!”  My husband came late to the party wanting to know what I was so excited about, so I showed him and managed to crank out another twenty five!  The celebration continued and I was feeling a bit shaky but less than two hours later, I did the final twenty five squats that had me at the peak of the challenge.  I was so proud of myself I reported it to my Facebook friends feeling like the bad mamma jamma that I knew I was.  Four hours later, I was crying in the shower with low back pain and screaming muscles in my thighs with a popping in my knees so loud is sounded like marbles hitting the floor.  Not to mention the fact that I had a pain in the ass like nobody’s business.  The bad mamma jamma was down for the count, reaching for pain pills and muscle relaxers and praying for relief. 

      So what did I learn from that painful experience?  Did it make me shy away from workouts all together?  No, it filled me with determination—not determination to keep up with the challenges being issued by the younger girls on the web who were jazzed up with excitement and endorphins making fit bodies with their spandex attire and sweat but to create new ones.  Not everybody can do the squats or burpees—which, by the way, I thought was something you did after drinking too much soda.   There are those of us who can barely pick up the things we drop on the floor and an aerobic workout is walking to the door to get the mail.  I realized that I am not the only person who has the physical limitations that keep us out of the gyms and fitness centers—not all machines are created equal and one size does not fit all.  We might be able to buy the walking shoes or the running shoes, put them on our feet and lace them up, but the walking and the running is a goal we find off in the future and in the meantime, we are faced with this question; how will I manage to work out in my condition?  You would think that a woman who was a certified fitness trainer and instructor for years would have the answer to this question.  Oh, I know how to work out, I know how to push someone to get them to give it their best and sweat their way to a stronger, healthier goal.  Problem is, once you get past a certain size and are held back by so many physical limitations—it is not easy to find a workout that works.  So what do you do?  Lose the weight without bothering to work out?  I know many have done this, but honestly  I believe there are so many benefits to working out; moving, becoming flexible and aiding in cardiovascular fitness not to mention the fact that movement promotes mobility.  I believe that as long as we can move something, we can get a workout. 

        So, what does a 400 pound woman who has to sit in a wheelchair a lot of the time who has to hug walls and dodge puppies to walk to the bathroom do to get a workout?  She starts by lifting her legs—gentle kicks, toe taps, knee raises.  Then she adds arm movements, bicep curls, arms over head, arm out, chest flies, elbow lifts—my butt is planted, but I’m moving.  I started doing stretching and breathing first thing in the morning.  Then I added a hand bike, an ergometer type machine that I got from Sears.  I knew I could not walk a mile, but I challenge myself to walk a minute—I know this sounds trivial to the upright and mobile, but to the woman in the chair a one minute walk down the hall and to the front door was a long way to have to go.  I could lie on the bed and do crunches and leg lifts but not nearly as many as I had once done, so I started with a small number and am working my way up.  The recumbent stationary cycle in the garage that I stopped using because it hurt my legs to much to operate, came back inside and I managed to get myself on it and pedaled as long as I could take the pain, which was about five minute.  Then I tied a band with handles to the handle bars and did resistance work for five minutes, then managed to pedal the cycle for another five.  I was amazed at what I could do. 

        Am I saying this is what every physically disabled person who has a knee and back problem complicated by a serious weight gain should do?  Heck no, we are all different and we all know what we can and cannot do.  But I am here to tell you that I was limiting myself and because of depression, feeling badly and thinking my life was over and there was no sense in trying,  I had dug myself into a pit of despair with walls of fear that said “don’t do it, you’ll hurt yourself and maybe die!”  It took being in a support group and having some wonderful, kind souls speak courage to me they motivated me to push myself to do more.  That is when I realized I was not as weak or as buried as I’d made myself believe.  Their challenges, howbeit not suitable for my situation, had pulled something out of me that I thought I’d lost—strength, belief in myself and courage to take a chance. 

        So I don’t do the squats or the marathons, I have decided to return the favor and be the poster child for the big people in the chairs, the ones who sit in their cars for ten minutes or more because they just don’t have the strength to pick themselves up and make the walk inside the house.  The ones who wake up in the morning and can’t seem to move or want to get dressed even to start their day because they know the pain of those first steps in the morning and just don’t want to go there.  The ones who put off simple tasks like standing at the kitchen counter chopping and dicing or even stirring the pot; the pain has become so harsh standing seems too much to bear.  The ones who look longingly at their back yards and wish they could do the gardening, the ones who want to pull the bike out and hit the trail but just can’t stay balanced long enough to get out of the driveway.  There are so many people who have painted themselves into a corner who hurt too much to move and have become sedentary to a crippling point where they would not be able to recognize the person in the mirror if they could only muster the courage to face him.  This is the small portion of society that I want to reach—the hopeless, the self-haters, the ones who search for a spark, a glint of a fire that will pick them up and set them on a path to get their life back.  I make my own challenges, easy to accomplish like doing abdominal crunches and leg lifts.  I write fru-fru poems and post my simple breakthrough that I know are the product of scorn and ridicule by some who think they have risen above my level of fitness and I say more power to them.  But right here, right now in my little corner of the world, I want to make a difference in myself first—and then light a fire under the chairs of the sedentary seemingly hopeless people who can’t see past their inability to the bright future that is still theirs. 

 

 

A NEW KIND OF SCROOGE

                There is a change at my house this Christmas Season.  Oh, the trees are up and the lights are twinkling, there are presents still hidden here and there with bags of wrapping paper, tape and ribbon ready to be applied.  I watch my favorite Christmas movies before I go to bed and the Christmas cards are still rolling in.  But there’s something missing; the kitchen is hollow and the counter tops empty—no twenty five pound bags of flour and sugar, no shelves filled with dried fruit, chocolate chips, white chocolate, butterscotch, caramel, peanut butter chips, no almond bark or bags of nuts by the pound.  There are no festive tins and cans to be filled with candy and cookies and no boxes for gourmet cakes with holiday flair.  This Christmas, there is a scrooge in the house who is selfish and insisting on change.  She’s rolled her sleeves up and taken on a healthy outlook, declared war on sugar and carbs and aligned herself with fresh fruits and vegetables.  She’s traded her apron for a sweat suit and a pair of tennis shoes and put away the cookie sheets and pulled out the vegetable steamer.  The whisk and candy thermometer are locked away in the drawer and instead of spending hours going through Christmas cookie and candy recipes, she’s online researching healthy alternatives for butters and oils and trying to find recipes that use Stevia.   The skinny husband is waiting for the list that he’ll take to the store to bring home the ingredients to transform into delectable treats and the stunned daughter keeps lifting her nose to sniff the now empty air that only affords the smell of lean meats being grilled or new vegetables steamed or sautéed.  I’m sure it’s overwhelming for them, to be denied of their must have merry munchies, and they are hopeful that the Scrooge will fall asleep and be visited by three spirit who will convince her to go back to her fattening festive frivolities.  But I believe the Christmas angels are watching with designed interest as the lady of the house forsakes the sugar gods and bosses of the cakes and moves on to find her lost treasure—her health. 

                Every Christmas tradition in my family has been connected to food.  People in my family have been known to gain ten pounds just in Christmas week alone and those of us with good genes manage to keep their holiday package to a pooch here, a pot belly there, maybe a bit of a jiggle in the arms and legs.  But to some of us, the sugar stains us with baggage that goes way beyond a ten pound pouch.  I wish I understood why some can eat bags of sugar with no effect and others need to be wiped off of the walls after consuming a quarter cup. Yet there are the ones who are fueled by the sugary treats to go on to host a ravenous beast who can eat the state of Texas with a cup or two of coffee.  I, unfortunately am the latter of the three, a fact that I have known for some time now, but somehow in the past few years I’ve lost the power to tame the beast.  I read a book called “Sugar Blues” that changed my mindset about 12 years ago and I determined to end the power sugar had over me.  I managed to hold it at bay for seven years, it was the best I’ve ever felt.  I was not thin, but I was a nice size 14, full of strength and muscle.  I had energy and was very active.  The only sweets I allowed myself were fruit and even lemons were sweet to me.  A sprinkle of cinnamon over my soy lattes added sweetness and cherry or grape tomatoes were like eating candy.  What happened to that success?  It was ambushed by one single Christmas cookie.  I was spending Christmas with my family in New Orleans and my sister in law had made some cookies she couldn’t wait for me to try.  My mother told me not to hurt her feelings, ‘eat the damn cookie’, she’d told me.  I did not, I held my ground.  But my mother, unhappy with my stubbornness, resorted to the age old supremacy that she’d used on me as a child, she gave me ‘the look’.  Now there are few things that get to me, put a lump in my throat and make me shiver with alarm; the look is one of them.  It was the method of control she’d used over us to get us to be nice, settle down, share—you know the look.  The one that said you may walk out of here smirking, but when I get you home, your butt is mine!  I cracked, incapable of withstanding the powers that be, and took the cookie.  It was a good cookie, you know the kind that is crispy on the edges, yet chewy in the middle?  Full of delightful chocolate chips and pecans and topped with a deep, dark chocolate drizzle?  My plan was to chew the cookie, make a few oohs and ahs and then spit it into napkin.  But it got to me, the ooey gooey texture, the sweetness tantalized my taste buds and for a moment, I was sugar seduced.  One cookie turned to three and I decided that didn’t hurt so I’d have a few pieces of fudge, just for the day, I’d go back to being sugar free in the morning.  By the New Year, I was sugar crazed!  Pancake for breakfast drowned with syrup, iced coffee concoctions at least 3 a day, cookies, cakes; I kept gummy bears in my car at all times.  I started to have acid reflux again, candida, my blood pressure went up, high cholesterol—need I say more? 

                I have often resented that cookie—it was like the straw that broke the camel’s back, the Trojan horse that wrecked my kingdom.  You would think I would have resisted cookies for all time, but I didn’t.  I was like a junkie with his stuff, miserable but satisfied.  The years that have past have brought me some heartache and loss and my joints gave way and in two years I found myself so big I could be considered a wide load in traffic.  So just like the festivity of the holiday season and the temptation to take just one bite stole my sugar free success, I am bound and determined to get it back with the same sentiment.   Sugar is not the reason for the season, I should not have visions of sugar plums dancing in my head and my house is not made of cookies held together with royal icing.  I have to have a better foundation than this, and this Christmas, while the world waves peppermint canes at each other and pounds one another with fudge and cake, I will make a change and I will get my healthy back. 

                There are so many other facets of the holidays—the music, the fellowship, the giving—I choose to focus on them and make this the best holiday ever. 

The Almighty Scale

So here it is weigh day, the day of accountability the day to see if all my hard work and determination and OCD behavior has paid off. I’m excited to find out, but at the same time I’m scared sick. Why is that? I know I’ve worked hard, I’ve eaten all the right foods, done all my exercise. I made friends with vegetables and flushed my body with 2 liters of water every day. I haven’t had pasta or rice or potatoes, I pitched the sugar, gave up the bread, made cookies and didn’t eat a one, upped my exercise from two fifteen minute sessions a day to an hour at one time--why wouldn’t I lose weight? It’s perfectly logical to believe that the scale is going to reflect my hard work, but I am afraid that in spite of it all, I’m going to get on the scale and it will disappoint me. I tell people all the time, a pound is not necessarily fat--could be fluid, muscle weight. I get on my soap box and preach ‘don’t let the scale own you!’ all of the time, it’s just a number, your success should be measured by your actions, your accomplishments, your attitude. So why does that number mean so much? Because it is the number that has been used for a century to determine who is pretty and who is not, who is healthy and who is at risk, who wears a bikini and who wears a swim dress; who is allowed to ride the mini bike and who needs a plus size scooter. When the weight is going up the scale yells at us--”Get off of me, you fatty! You keep gaining weight and pretty soon you’ll have to get weighed at the Vet’s office!” It assures us that we are growing and gaining and not in a good way and we need to get rid of the excess. And when we take the plunge, when we make up our minds to work at losing the weight we report in on a regular basis to see what the scales tells us--if we lose it slaps us on the back and says “good for you! Aren’t you special?” But if we gain, it slaps us across the face and calls us a failure. Is it any wonder that I see people at my weigh ins back up to the scale and not want to know how they’ve done? It’s a way of surrender, of telling the scale “you win, I can’t take the suspense or the beatings any more.” So what do we do, do we beat the scale silly and trash it? God knows that’s what I’ve wanted to do many times, but would it truly do us any good to become a scale abuser. And no matter how we try to get around it, at some time we are going to have to get on that box with the numbers to determine where our weight is. So here is where I sit, wondering if it is worth it to starve myself until my weigh in, which isn’t until 7:00 pm tonight because I’m afraid of water gain or to put two pounds of food in me and get charged with 2 pounds? Or do I just face the fact that I am doing this thing for my health and I need to know where my weight is, losing weight is such a motivator but then again, not losing is such a pain. I know that in the long run it will all level out, and while I don’t want to go through the agony of defeat, I really do want to know if I’ve got reason to celebrate. So I will drink my water and try to divert my mind for the hours that separate me and my weigh in time and when I get on that scale I will hold my breath and wait for the numbers to stop spinning, and hopefully I will walk away with a smile on my face.

IF THE SHOE FITS...

 

 

    I have always loved shoes. When I was a kid my mother bought us shoes that we called "ugly shoes" they were not cute, they were not feminine, they were ugly.  When I got a job and could buy my own shoes, I couldn't wait to buy fun, cute and adorable shoes.  But there was one problem--I was a size ten and size tens were not glorious shoes back then so I was forced to wear clobber shoes, better known by my sister and me as "ugly shoes".  My life went on in the ugly shoes, and one day a new shoe store came to the parish, it was called "Shoe Town" and it became one of my favorite places to shop.  There were rows and rows of shoes and all the way to the back there was half a rack of not so bad almost normal looking and sometimes 'cute' shoes.  One payday when I had some money to blow, I found myself at that half a rack gazing at my choices when suddenly I saw shoes that were past cute, they were fabulous!  Oh yes, they were long and required a bigger box, but they were bright red patton leather and shiny.  The design was genius and the scoop from heel to the toe was so elegant, I couldn't want to put them on my foot.  As fast as my hands would work, I pulled them out of the box and was sitting on that little bench trying them on.  I held my foot out in front of me and tears dampened my eyes--they were glorious!  I had never in all my twenty years, seen such a beautiful thing at the end of my leg.  They made them look stylish, elegant and glamorous.  I turned my foot ever so slightly and let the light catch the glitter of the patton leather--I was  gorgeous!  I couldn't wait to get up and sasshay around in them.  But turned out, those bright and shiny shoes were not so easy to stand up in, much less walk around in.  My ankles buckled as I rose from the bench and as I fought for balance, I realized standing in heels took poise and feminine skill, so I flipped my hair back and summoned my Marilyn Monroe and prepared to be a vixen.  Well, let's just say my inner vixen was no match for these shoes, I had a pain in my arch and fell to the floor.  Yes, my first time in beautiful shoes, the kind I'd been dreaming of for so many years put me on the floor and made me look like a puddle of flubber with two spikes protruding from my feet.  I got up and tried to walk, but no matter how I tried, I could not make it in those heels. 

 I cried about those shoes; back then I was more than chunky and trying to fit in with the skinny people was hard for me. I couldn't wear the short shorts, I couldn't do spaghetti straps, or tube tops, I could not fit into blue jeans and I wasn't working the mini skirt too well, either.  I couldn't fit into the mold of the average girl who was wearing a size ten and under, but I could fit into those shoes and they made me feel hip and modern and, well, not so fat. 

   Today I look at cute little sundresses and halter tops; knee high boots and leggins; bikinis and 2 piece bathing suits and realize I'm still forced to window shop.  Do I really want to wear a bikini?  Heck no, I'd have to lose a lot of weight to fit into one and I know that will happen, but once I get there will my 50 plus body look good in strings?  Uh, I don't think so.  What I'm really looking for now is to be able to shop with my fashion sense and not have to worry about size sense--is this appropriate for a woman of size?  Will these boots fit around my massive calves?  Just how big will that skirt make my bulging butt look, I wonder?  I want to be able to see a dress that makes me get all giddy and be able to say, "I want that!"  and be able to buy it with no question or fear of it not coming in my size.  I want to be able to go into a store and not have to look for special sizes, and I want to lose the fear of worrying about what the sales person is thinking when I ask "does this come in my size?"  I still love heels and I know that my knees and back will not allow me to wear the spikes, but I still look forward to buying a pair of shoes with a little heel on them that makes me look smart, chic and sexy that will allow me the thrill of sashaying about feeling like a superstar. 

I was one of seven children and my mother would make huge pots of food to feed us.  Every day when I came home from school I was hungry and I remember pushing my chair to the stove and going for it:  I'd dig into that pot and fill my plate.  Later when I was trying to figure out why I ate so much, I was faced with a portions challenge--this skinny little girl with a registered dietitian degree sat some utensils and dishware down and told us to show her what a serving was.  She cautioned us to be honest and so I complied.  When I was finished serving up my portions the room was full of gasps and Skinny D was shaking her head in surprise.   "You're eating too much," she  surmised.  Oh my, was I excited, she was a genius as well as psychic.  I was given a set of cup and spoon measures and told to buy a food scale and oh so relieved to finally realize the error of my way.  Like I was going to go straight home and have a half cup of pasta and a teaspoon of mayonnaise.  I did give it a whirl, though, I did the measuring thing and saw how much I needed to eat and was faced with the frustration of knowing I'd rather not eat pasta than to just tease myself with a half cup.
       The first time I successfully lost weight I did it with a fast; I drank coke and iced tea and had an occasional cup of soup.  How I survived that diet I'll never know, but the 68 pounds I lost were most welcome, but when I tried to maintain the weight, I just couldn't--and when I tried to go back to the fasting, I got sick and because of my low blood sugar, I was given to fainting.  So I knew that would not work, once the weight came back I had to find a way to get it off again, but unless I was fasting, I was not losing weight. My habit of large servings and too much condiments did me in every time.  So I finally realized I had to learn how to eat small quantities of food or find foods that I could eat large quantities of.  That's when I discovered free vegetables, fresh, raw green leafy vegetables and how can I forget the wonderful cabbage soup that I could eat endlessly?  I managed to find food for the bottomless pit but soon it lost it's luster and I found a new passion--recipe modification.  I started with guacamole, how could something so green be so fattening as my beloved avocado?  I was going to a party and I wanted to wow my church friends with a light and delicious right and nutritious chips and dip so I got to work.  I made guacamole with peas--that's right, green peas thrown into a food processor with all the right seasonings and spices and when I served it that night with my freshly oven toasted tortilla chips they were a hit.  I even put a little post-it sign on them letting everyone know what the calories and fat grams were and did the church women love me that night.  They beat a path to me eager for the recipe.  I discovered two things that night--green peas were really good masked as a Mexican dip and I wanted to give that modification thing some work.   I did such a good job I won awards for several of my recipes when I entered them in the Health Styles Way to Health recipe contests.  So now that I am making a run for health, I'm determined to get my recipe modification mojo back.  That means I will be sharing some of my favorite holiday favorites on here starting with my favorite cranberry creation--cranberry pineapple chutney.

One 16 ounce bag of cranberries
1 can of pineapple chunks (in it own juice)
1 cup of orange juice
1 small package of cherry sugar free gelatin
1 teaspoon of cinnamon
1/4 teaspoon of salt
2 tablespoons of grated orange zest

wash cranberries.  Place berries and all of the ingredients in a medium saucepan over medium heat.  Once the cranberries start to pop, lower the heat and let simmer for eight minutes.  Take off of the heat and let cool.