Not Fried Refried Beans

The first time I made these “refried” beans, I followed the recipe in The Super Foods Rx Diet by Wendy Bazilian and Steven Pratt to a T (a book I ADORE and, honestly, only let me down this one time).

Per the recipe, I soaked the beans in the crockpot the night before, cooked them on low for 10 hours the next day, added the (too short) list of ingredients, mashed the beans with a hand mixer (disastrously frustrating), then took a taste test. Oh. My. God. They were awful. I wanted those 10 hours back, or at least the one I’d spent making that batch of disaster. I hated them so much I actually ranted in my kitchen and wrote across the top (in pencil): “Never make these again! They’re bland and they suck!”

A few weeks went by. I was haunted by those beans, convinced I could make them better. But at that time I was not a recipe strayer, at least not with new recipes. I didn’t trust my instincts because…well…I didn’t think I had cooking instincts. Recipe straying takes confidence, and while I was a good cook within my own tried-and-true recipe arena, I didn’t think I knew enough about cooking to have an opinion.

However, after a few weeks, I really REALLY wanted refried beans and the ones in the can had way too much sodium, thus the reason I attempted to make my own in the first place. I went back to the book, erased what I wrote and instead, challenged myself: “A bit bland. Needs more oomph.”

I bought a couple pounds of dried beans, thought outside the box, and after several experimental batches, came up with this, my modified recipe. 

Lynn’s Not Fried Refried Beans

Yields 2 cups
¼ C equals 50 cal., 0 gms fat, 3.5 gms fiber

8 oz dried pinto beans
2-3 T minced onions (if you like a good strong onion flavor) OR ½ C diced onions OR ½ t onion powder (the diced or the powder will give you a more mild onion flavor)
½ T chili powder
½ t garlic powder
¼ t salt
¼ t cumin
¼ t ground chipotle pepper (optional)
A few shakes of red pepper flakes (optional)

If you remember to soak the beans the night before, do that. But if you’re like me and decide at 3 in the afternoon that you want refried beans for dinner, put them in a pot covered with cold water, bring to a boil, boil for 2 minutes, turn them off and let them sit for an hour.

Drain.

Put the beans back in the pot. If you’re using minced/dried onions or diced onions, throw them in there, too. Refill pot with fresh water. Simmer for 90 minutes or until the beans are very tender. Drain, reserving about ½ cup of the cooking water. (If you forget to do this, no worries. Regular water will work.)

Put the beans in a food processor fitted with the blade. As I mentioned, I used a hand mixer with less than stellar results. But then, I get frustrated easily, so if you’re patient, you will probably have a better experience. You can also mash all this up with a potato masher or fork.

Add the rest of the ingredients to the beans. Process (or mix or mash) for about 30 seconds. Add a ¼ to ½ cup of bean water (or regular water) and process for another minute or so. Check consistency. Mix things around a little with a spatula and process again for another minute or two, adding water if you want them creamier. Check the taste and add whatever you think they need: more salt, chili pepper, whatever. Process again if you need to. Remember, these are YOUR beans and get to make them however you want.

That’s it. Pretty simple, eh?

I think everyone needs something to call our signature food. Something we’re known for. Something people request we bring to a party. My ex-husband made killer spaghetti, and my now husband makes a garlicy scallops dish that, although I’m a vegetarian, would request for my last meal.

My mom makes chocolate chip cookies to die for. Daughter Carlene makes amazing banana bread. Daughter Cassie can do things with lentils that would knock your socks off. They kinda sorta follow a recipe, but they know what ingredients work best for the results they’re looking for, so to duplicate what they do is futile.

How about you? What recipe are you known for?

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On Being Called "Fat"

I’m reading a collection of short stories by Elizabeth Berg, the title of the collection being what lured me: “The Day I Ate Whatever I Wanted (And Other Small Acts of Liberation).” Body weight and self-esteem are themes in several of the stories, but it’s the story “Full Count” that I (unfortunately) can relate to the most.

It’s the story of a pre-teen girl visiting her relatives in North Dakota for the first time in two years. She’s so happy to be there among them, free and innocent. She goes to the lake with her grandfather (whom everyone calls Bampo) and cousins, and after swimming, they all play tag. Janey, the main character, is “it.”

“[Janey] walks over to the bushes, laughing. There they all are, every one of them, including Bampo, crouched in the greenery and peering up at her. ‘I see you,’ she said. ‘Y’all come out of those bushes.’

“A kind of guffaw, and then there is the sound of Michael imitating her, saying in a high voice, ‘Y’all come out of those bushes!’ All the cousins laugh. For a moment, she holds the smile on her face, the bright happiness she was enjoying still inside her. But then Michael comes crashing out of the bushes and walks past her with a look of disgust on his face. ‘Lard ass,’ he mutters.

“She jerks back a breath. Lard ass. What does it mean?...

“She is not a stallion, wild and free. She is a girl whose bangs were cut crookedly last time and whose mother told her to stop complaining. Her teeth are too big and her eyes are too small…She does not have any friends, really. And here, the last, she understands she has gotten fat. She understands the reason for the looks that pass between her mother and her father when she asks for pie, for French fries, for more.”

The story ends with Bampo taking his grandchildren to Dairy Queen. Everyone orders something except Janey. She’s hungry, so hungry that she’s lightheaded, but she orders nothing.

When I was a kid, being called fat was the worst thing I could imagine.

And when it happened, it was.

“Try out for cheerleading with me,” said my friend Robin a few months into 8th grade. “We’ll have fun.”

Robin was one of the lucky ones. She was growing into her body proportionately, and she had long blond hair and perfect skin, too. In Robin’s world, trying out for cheerleading was as natural as breathing. For me, I could think of nothing more humiliating. But I was stuck. I knew if I told Robin no, she might not speak to me for weeks, and that was a fate worse than falling on my big-boned ass during a spread eagle jump.

So I stayed after school every day for two weeks, learning routines with the other 20 girls trying out for the four-person squad. It was the first time I’d competed for anything individually, and despite my emotional passivity, I am inherently competitive. My long legs came in handy, allowing me to jump high, do the splits, and nail a perfect cartwheel. By the time of the actual tryout, I didn’t care if I made the squad or not. In my mind, I was a cheerleader.

The results were announced over the loud speaker during daily announcements the following day. I was in third-period study hall with 30 other students from various grades. The room was quiet as Robin’s sister, a senior-high cheerleader, announced the new members of the junior-high squad. Debbie Megard. Debbie Skorr. Robin Martinson. Lynn Haraldson.

The older students at my table turned and looked at me and my face burned red. They smiled and gave me thumbs up and mouthed “Congrats!” I sat there, guts churning, not sure if what I was feeling was pride or dread. I pictured myself on game days, walking down the halls in my saddle shoes, short skirt, and orange sweater with the letter J on the front. People would know I was agile and spirited and not simply some number on the scale. I dared to think that maybe I wasn’t so awkward. Maybe I wasn’t so big-boned. Maybe I really was normal.

Then in the silence someone said, “Great. We have a fat cheerleader.”

It was Ricky, my sixth-grade boyfriend. His friends snickered. The study hall teacher told them to shut up, but the words were out there. I sat in disgrace, no longer the perky girl with the perfect cartwheel.
I was now a fat cheerleader.

1977, the photo from my yearbook.

I’m on the right with with the sloping bangs (stupid curly hair). That’s Robin on the left.

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Saving For a Rainy Day

Just before I laid down on the massage table yesterday, I noticed my left quad and how defined it has gotten the last few weeks. How hard it is. Strong. While I’m not a fan of doing straight-leg lifts with a 5-pound weight strapped to my ankle, doing them really isn’t that bad. Tough, yes. But not hard.

In fact, this whole recovery, while slower than I expected, is physically much easier than I expected. The only thing that hurts during PT is when my PT bends my knee further than it wants to go and he manipulates my scar to break up the scar tissue. (At least today I just yelped and didn’t cry. Usually I cry a little. Maybe even that part’s getting easier. Maybe.)

When my massage therapist started working on my left leg, she, too, noticed how strong my quad was.

“That didn’t take long,” she said. “It’s a good thing you worked out so much before.”

She’s right. Getting fit was like opening a savings account. My body had enough muscle stored up that I could make a withdrawal for major surgery and a 3+-month recovery period and still have enough muscle mass to spare.

My only complaint (and it’s not really a complaint, just a minor grievance) is that while the scale number hasn’t changed since surgery five weeks ago, my weight has shifted and distributed itself in places I’m not happy about (like around my middle…I’m SUCH an apple). But I still have plenty ‘o muscle and determination left in reserve, so when I’m finally back in full workout mode I’ll put all those parts back where they belong.

Buh-bye puppy belly.

I look forward to the challenge, especially with an improved knee. Where will it take me? How far will I go? I can’t wait to find out!

In the meantime, I walk at 1.7 mph on a treadmill in a tank of water (that's obviously not me in the tank, but the other person is on my PT assistants. Hi, Jill!). I ride a stationary bike with the seat jacked up so the soles of my feet aren’t quite flush with the pedal because I’m at a 100- to 105-degree bend in the left knee. I take stairs one at a time and use my cane when I’m not at home.

Living on my fitness savings, I can drive alone and cook dinner and wash dishes and water the gardens and fill bird feeders.

Looky what else I can do:

I’ve accepted that the work the surgeon did on my knee was major and that I need to be patient with this recovery. But while I may not be as far along as I’d “planned” to be pre-surgery, I’m further along than I would have been at 300 pounds, if a full recovery would have even been possible.

By opening that savings account five years ago, I’ve been able to withdraw not only physical prowess, but confidence, too. I know with all certainty now that I CAN recover from major surgery and maintain my weight. And the best part is that I’ve not drained my account. There’s more than enough still in there to sustain me for the duration of my recovery.

It’s thinking about this savings account that keeps me sane through those teeth-gritting knee bends with my PT. It’s the pain that is helping to heal me so I can build up my savings again, perhaps even surpass the previous balance.

So how’s the balance in your own fitness savings account? Do you have enough saved for a rainy day?

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Me At Any Weight

Digging through my purse has been a favorite pastime of Claire’s since she was six months old. She’d find my compact, open it, and scrape at the powder. Shake the Tic Tacs. Chew on my phone.

What she liked most was to rearrange my wallet. She’d take out the debit cards and the American Express card and the AAA card and the insurance card and the various Hallmark/Dicks/Staples/Giant Eagle store cards and then put them back, usually cramming them into one slot.

Claire hasn’t been through my purse in awhile, although Luca has a time or two. Today, though, she wanted to rummage through it. When she dug out my wallet, she found my driver’s license and said, “That’s you, Grammy!”

What she didn’t know was that behind my current driver’s license was my license from six years ago. I took it out and showed it to her.

“Who’s that person, Grammy?” she asked.

“That was Grammy a long time ago,” I said.

She stared at me for a second, like I’d gone completely nuts.

“No,” she finally said. “That’s not you.”

Some day it will make sense to her. Some day she’ll see photos of me at 300 pounds and recognize her Grammy. Somewhere in my eyes, I suspect. Or my smile.

Within those before photos is a vague yet important resemblance to the me of today. There is energy within them. The spark of a woman who worked hard, dreamed, loved her kids, and was a good person. Claire will see that one day, I’m sure of it.

While it’s often hard to reconcile before and after photos, the only real difference is weight. The real me is always there. Yes, I’ve grown as a person; matured and learned a lot about nutrition and me and why I eat and all that, but deep down – at my very core – I am me at any weight.

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Here are a few more photos from my amazing day with the grandbabies. It was my first solo trip to Pittsburgh in more than five weeks. While I’ve seen Claire and Luca in that time, this was our first real back-to-normal visit. We all needed it.

Playing with Grammy's cane

Luca and me in a self portrait

Me with my Claire Bear

Luca wearing his lunch

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Tweaking Recipes

It’s been awhile since I’ve shared a recipe. With so many awesome food blogs out there I don’t have much to contribute. But once in awhile I make something that makes me so happy I need to share, and tonight, it’s Portobello Spinach Frittata.

The original recipe is from Taste of Home magazine, but I’ve modified it so much that – to use a hair metaphor – mine looks more like a curly blond than a straight-haired brunette. But still, kudos to TOH (one of my favorite recipe sites). I’d not have made this without the original.

Portobello Spinach Frittata

1 C Egg Beaters
¾ C low-fat ricotta cheese
½ C grated Parmesan cheese
1 package (10 ounces) frozen chopped spinach, thawed and squeezed dry
¼ t pepper
4 green onions, sliced
1-2 C sliced mushrooms (portobello or just plain white ones)
1 C shredded zucchini
Fresh basil or other spices you like in eggs

In a large frying pan coated with cooking spray, sauté the mushrooms and zucchini (with a little garlic, if you’d like) until they are soft and there’s no more liquid left in the pan.

In a large bowl, combine the first six ingredients. Add the cooked mushrooms and zucchini and basil or other spices. Mix well. Transfer to a 9-inch pie plate coated with cooking spray. Bake at 350 degrees for 30-35 minutes or until a knife inserted near the center comes out clean. Let stand 10 minutes before cutting.

This makes 4-6 servings. Two in my house some nights. If you’re counting Points, it’s 4 for 4 servings made this way.

Here’s what the process looks like:

Chop.

Mix.

Sauté.

Do I look tired? Because I am.

My knee and cane waiting.

The finished product. (Forgot to take a photo when it came out of the oven.)

Remember, recipes aren’t sacred! If you don’t follow them to a T it’s not like you’ll go to hell or anything. How do you tweak your favorite recipes to suit you and your taste/dietary wants and needs? Do you look at a recipe and know you can make it healthier or better?

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Blogger, Heal Thyself

“Though it’s oh so nice to get advice, it’s oh so hard to do.” Joe Jackson (the singer, not MJ’s father)

I don’t know how you guys do it, but one of you always manages to ask me a question I seem to be struggling with myself, although I don’t always know it at the time. Great minds fixate alike.

When people ask me a question, they’re seeking advice or some piece of wisdom I can pass on from my own experience. However, it’s one thing to give advice and another to take it, especially when the advice you’re giving is the advice you need to heed. But if we really believe in what we’re advising, then it’s not as hard to turn the mirror around and look honestly at the issue. At least this was true for me this morning when K wrote with this question:

“What I struggle with most is eating what I really shouldn’t. For instance, today I did so good at work, but I came home and ate junk. Why can’t I just reach for all the good things in my fridge when I feel like that? Honestly, I was really tired and could have used a nap, but I reached for the food.”

At first it seemed a straight up question, one I’ve answered before.

“K, it sounds to me like you need a time out – a few minutes is all – between deciding to eat and eating. Ask yourself EVERY TIME: ‘Why am I wanting/needing/reaching for this food?’ Then write down your answer in a notebook.


“If you're hungry, eat. If not, deal with the feeling. Go for a quick walk, nothing fancy. It’s about thinking first, eating later. At least that’s what I've come to know.”

Then it hit me: I’ve been wanting to do exactly what K has been doing all week – eat when I’m not hungry and/or eat inappropriately – and I hadn’t given thought as to why. I’ve just been running on autopilot, eating (mostly) on plan and allowing my desire to eat run amok in my fuzzy, unfocused brain. Thank goodness for K because in replying, I woke up and realized just how much I’d been obsessing.

“I’m going to physical therapy in a few minutes. I’ve eaten breakfast, my body is satisfied, and yet I want to EAT because I’m nervous. Usually stress makes me not want to eat, but anticipating physical pain makes me want to soothe with food. I didn’t see this before, but now that I know, I will deal with the feeling. I’m afraid of the upcoming pain, but food will NOT solve that. Only a complete understanding and acceptance of the fear can help this situation.


“You (we) CAN do this. It’s a matter of retraining your brain and always, ALWAYS keeping your best interests in the forefront of every food decision you make. Also, just as you care enough to ask WHY you want to eat at a particular moment, care enough to feed your body the right foods. It all comes down to loving YOU.”

Recognizing that food has been a bigger issue for me this week than I realized helped me zero in on the emotion behind the desire to eat. Now that I get it, I can deal with it. What I can’t deal with is living in a food fog.

Ah, the crazy relationship(s) we have with food. DietGirl Shauna (Hi, chicka!) posted a link to this tongue-in-cheek essay from The Onion, “Fill Your Own Goddamn Emotional Void.” Because it’s from The Onion there’s a little profanity, but it’s a hilarious essay from the point of view of Food to the food obsessed.

I’d also like to dedicate the before-quoted Joe Jackson song, “Breaking Us In Two,” to Food, particularly this stanza:
Could we be much closer if we tried
We could stay at home and stare
Into each other's eyes
Maybe we could last an hour
Maybe then we'd see right through
Always something breaking us in two

Watching the video this morning while answering K kept me away from the fridge long enough to focus. Thanks, Joe!



UPDATE from yesterday’s blog:

Things are looking up. PT is going well. Agoraphobia remains at bay. And I’m looking forward to this weekend and a visit from my dear WW online friend, CrispyRice, the same Crispy who visited me in the hospital. My normal life is slowly returning. Patience, patience.

Thank you, Tish, for the Shakespeare quote. My g-babies do make me very happy. And Jane, I understood (and related to) everything you wrote in your comment. I, too, found agoraphobia and anxiety embarrassing to admit having. I hope in writing your comment you found some peace with your past. Thank you so much for your support.

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This Wednesday’s Morning

I wake up and “Judy Blue Eyes” is playing in my head, probably because I think it’s Tuesday. But it’s Wednesday. Two days closer to the weekend. I hate weekends.

It’s so humid you can uncork wine bottles with my hair. The air is stacked in layers, like slabs of wood at a lumber yard. It feels like jelly on my skin. The breeze from the window fan rolls the wet air around like a lead ball. I get up and limp to the bathroom.

I look in the mirror. Another zit. I turn on the water to wash my face and I reach for a towel. It’s still damp from Tuesday’s shower. I use it anyway and place it on the railing below the window and straighten it fully. I look up. A fly bangs against the screen and a chipmunk sits in the lilac bush. My knee feels as dense as the air. I place the crutch under my right arm, walk toward the kitchen, and step in dog shit in the living room.

It’s 7:30.

My second out-patient physical therapy appointment is at 10:30. Tuesday’s appointment was as much fun as stepping in dog poop, so my expectations are low. But somewhere in my brain’s humid haze, I know my destiny isn’t in the hands of the gods. Nothing stays the same.

I put on some makeup and pay attention to my hair. It lifts my spirits. I know (and preach) that real change comes from the inside out, but sometimes mascara is a bridge to sanity. A different song plays in my head: “Whatever gets you through your life, ‘salright, ‘salright…”

I am in the car driving east on I-80 when my shoulders tighten and I remember the agoraphobic, near-panic attack I had driving I-80 the day before. It was nearly identical to the one I had in 1986 on the on-ramp to 169N off 376E in Minneapolis. I made it home, but I was immobilized by fear and didn’t drive for a year.

Not driving for a year now isn’t an option. Agoraphobia will not happen today. I have strategies. Exercises. Still, I’m pissed that I have to breathe this way and talk my body into calm, that this stupid disorder chose to surface like cicadas after years underground.

The cruise control is set at 68 mph. Semis are passing me on the left. I feel the panic rise. I can pull over and cry and call AAA to tow me home or suck it up and keep my mind calm.

I choose calm and the change begins.

The wave of dread, frustration and disorder recedes the moment my PT puts me in the “tank” and I walk on a treadmill in water. I’m not breaking any land speed records, but I walk, untethered to a crutch and not limping. I feel free for the first time in a month.

I walk outside with a new cane and toss the crutch in the back seat. The air is still thick, but I am hopeful. Who knows? Maybe even the weekend won’t be so bad.

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