Every night I follow the same instructions: Remove tray from
outer carton. Cut film cover to vent. Cook on high for 5-6 minutes. Carefully
remove tray from oven and let stand for one minute. So as not to exclude the
Flintstones among us, the box also has instructions for conventional oven
preparation, for those who possess the patience to preheat the oven and then
actually wait 35 minutes. THIRTY-FIVE. Within that time, I could run downstairs
to Hunan Balcony, digest a full meal, egg drop soup included, and open a fortune
cookie that warns, "You love Chinese food." (Interpretation: "Your destiny ought
not be discussed in this venue. Seek help.")
Speaking of help, last night the leader in my Weight Watchers
meeting said, "Do yourselves a favor." Uh-oh, I thought, is this going to be
another hug-yourself-in-the-morning piece of advice? "Do yourselves a favor and
spend some time in the produce section. Look at all the fruits and vegetables,
all the different shapes and colors, and ask yourselves why you won't nourish
your body with these gifts of nature." Part preacher, part diva, this leader
uses sweeping hand gestures when she lectures, and sometimes she adopts a
Southern drawl for motivational emphasis. Every week she saves some metaphorical
morsel for us to chew on as we leave the Center to meet the restaurant-lined
streets. "Your body is a castle. When you make healthy choices you are getting
the throne ready for the queen." Not queen as in Dairy Queen (you wish...), but
queen as in the worthy self who inhabits the castle.
After rolling my eyes during the first couple of meetings, I
finally decided I would have to drop the cynicism in order to drop the pounds.
Ok, so my leader's a tad drunk on self-help jargon. But she IS a lifetime
member, and I might glean some wisdom I pay attention.
Since the 18-inch microwave has long been THE fundamental
appliance in my 20-inch kitchen, I'm a real amateur when it comes to food
preparation. I can make toast but the truth is I BOIL WATER in the microwave
too. As for survival, I know how to tell when the canned peas and frozen
broccoli spears have been radioactively seared, and I have a pretty good sense
of how much apple pie I need to ingest in order to have had a full serving of
fruit. But, on a basic nutritional ripe-fruit-identifying level, I am shamefully
impaired. So even if I take Queen Bee's advice and stock up on pumpkin squash
and cauliflower heads, I won't know what to do with them once they reach my
kitchen?
Nonetheless, I want to live well, feel energized, and nourish my
body and soul. Take responsibility. Fit into last summer's shorts. Achieve a
goal, etc. In a twist of fate, this evening I found myself perusing the produce
lanes. Unlike the pre-packaged pre-washed salad bags I usually buy and let
spoil, this time I filled a produce bag with a colorful blend of Mesclun
lettuce. Purely on my natural vegetable-instinct I chose a small stiff zucchini
and a bunch of carrots still wearing their long green New Year's hats.
As I approached the fruit bins, I hung out along the edges and
watched the more sophisticated shoppers squeeze. I started by acquiring a
no-brainer, the banana, with which I already had some experience. I skipped over
the orange and grapefruit--in fact the whole citrus clan--because I find peels
burdensome. But alas, there before me in shades of sunset: the nectarine. I held
several in my palm and feigned expertise before I bagged three.
At home, I hand-scooped the organic salad and positioned it on
the plate alongside my favorite Lean Cuisine dish, Chicken a l'Orange (not to be
confused with mundane Orange Chicken...) I sliced up half the zucchini,
microwaved it (hey, the zucchini itself is a big step...) and decorated my plate
with it. For dessert I thought I'd try (no commitment) a nectarine. I don't want
my body to go into shock, so I'm slowly introducing the goods of nature, as I
even more slowly decrease the sodium preservatives. As I ate dinner on my futon
(slash, tabletop), I waited with anticipation to feel the first nourishment
rush. Aaaaah1x
By Laura
Schiller