The thing about curly hair.

I have curly hair. Like, really, really, curly hair. It is not that big, bouncy curl type, either. It is unruly and hard to manage and terribly unreliable.

The thing is, most people have no idea.

Since I was in middle school, I have straightened it daily. I spent hours pulling, and ironing. There were often tears, lots of frustration, and a good amount of fighting with my mother and myself.

These days, I am much better at it. I have a good straightener and better products. Even so, it takes me forever. It is such a pain. It makes me not want to work out. It makes me not want to get caught in the rain. I avoid snow. It has a huge bearing on my choices.

How silly is that?

I love my hair straight. I like how it moves. How easy it is to get ready once it is done. I feel more polished, more together, and so much prettier.

Sometimes I feel bad about it though. I teach 6th graders. I tell them to be themselves and embrace who they are naturally. I tell them that they are great just how they are.

But what does my constant hair straightening say? Should I be practicing what I preach?

For the past few weeks, I have worn my hair curly a few days each week. I would love to say that it has been great. I would love to say that I love it. But that would be a lie. I hate it. I don’t feel like me when my hair is curly.

So, what do I do? Does this really matter? Or it this just me being ridiculous?

Red Lentil Soup (for the coldest day ever)

Today is literally the coldest day I can remember. I left my mom’s house in Boston this morning, and it was -5 degrees. That is just so cold. It hurt. Like really, really, hurt. Thankfully, buy the time we got back, it was a much more handleable 7 degrees. Still not comfortable… but better. The only thing I could think about as I shivered at the gas station was this soup. It really is the most wonderful soup I have ever made. Even my husband loves it. I recommend serving this with crusty wholegrain bread in big “mug” style bowls.

Red Lentil and Lemon Soup (adapted from the New York Times)

INGREDIENTS

• 1 large onion, chopped
• 2 garlic cloves, minced
• 1 tablespoon tomato paste
• 1 (or more) teaspoon ground cumin
• ¼ teaspoon kosher salt, more to taste
• ¼ teaspoon ground black pepper
• Pinch of ground cayenne, more to taste
• ¼ teaspoon smoked paprika
• 1 homeade vegetable broth
• 2 cups water
• 1 cup red lentils
• 2 large carrot, peeled and diced
• Juice of 1/2 lemon, more to taste
• 1-2 cups baby spinach

PREPARATION

1. In a large pot, heat 3 tablespoons oil over high heat until hot and shimmering. Add onion and garlic, and sauté until golden, about 4 minutes.
2. Stir in tomato paste, cumin, smoked paprika, salt, black pepper and c cayenne, and sauté for 2 minutes longer.
3. Add broth, 2 cups water, lentils and carrot. Bring to a simmer, then partially cover pot and turn heat to medium-low. Simmer until lentils are soft, about 30 minutes. Taste and add salt if necessary.
4. Using an immersion or regular blender or a food processor, purée half the soup then add it back to pot. Soup should be somewhat chunky.
5. Reheat soup if necessary, then stir in lemon juice, baby spinach, and cilantro.

A (Brief) History of (my) Fitness: P90x, Gym, Running, Yoga.

In the past few years, my relationship with fitness and working out has been… iffy. In my world, fitness was for one main reason:to lose weight and look better. It was punishment. I had to talk myself into it. I had to trick myself into doing it. It made me feel frustrated and angry.

And then I married a soccer coach/personal trainer. Someone who lives, breathes, and loves fitness.  Someone who is happiest when in the gym and working hard.

After a full year of convincing, he finally got me to join a few sessions a week  with him in a group class. And I liked it. But mostly because I liked the people that I was spending time with (including my lovely husband!).

Then, I started running. I was proud of myself for running 6 miles without any issues. And I liked it. But mostly because I would do it with someone else and we would have lovely conversations as we ran. The people I ran with ran slowly. And it was fun. But on my own, I would push myself. I would watch the time. It really felt like it mattered to work hard enough to be in pain.

Next, I started doing P90x3 because it was too cold to go outside. And it worked. And it was hard. And I got stronger. And I hated it.

The harder I worked, the angrier I became. It was painful and hard, but I was proud of myself for being so “good” and working through it. At the time, I was also cutting carbs and dragging myself up the stairs at night because of my lack of energy. I couldn’t play with my son. Everything was hard. While I was doing the DVDs. there was a negative tape playing in my mind, and now, looking back, I realize that I was punishing myself. 

The truth is, that I don’t like feeling angry. I like being mindful. I like working hard-ish.

So where does that leave me now? I like running, still. But I listen to folksy music about love and focus on time, not how fast I am going. I am looking forward to spring so I can run outside.

I have also started doing yoga. I have always been too intimidated to go to a class, so I started doing the P90X yoga, then moved to some workouts on youtube. I really like Erica Ventra and Yoga with Adriene. I like it. It makes me happy. I admit, however, that at times I feel like it is not “punishing” enough. It is hard, and I am working– but I don’t feel like I am dying. Why is it that that is something that I still want?

So, in the end, I don’t know. I want to be happy. I want to feel strong. I want to like myself. I want to be brave enough to go to a class and make sure I am doing things right. But I am not quite there yet. Maybe soon. Hopefully soon.

An Argument for Teapots.

When I was in college, I spent a few weeks in Northern Ireland doing theater and talking about peace. No matter where we went, we were always greeted by a cup of tea with milk and sugar. I don’t think I had ever consumed that much tea in my entire life, but I found myself looking forward to it. When we are in England visiting my in-laws, it is very much the same thing.

There is something so welcoming– espeically in the cold– about a cup of tea on arrival. Now, I am sure to always have a good selection and kettle on whenever someone is coming over. 

Since switching from coffee, I have found myself even more obsessed with tea. It is more than just the actual drink, though. It is the ritual of making a cup, it is the memories of time spent in Northern Ireland and England, and it is the fact that I am always cold.

Recently, My mother handed down a ceramic teapot that was given to her by a college friend years and years ago. This friend’s mother knit a “tea cozie” for it, and somehow, even this many years later, we still have it. Although I still make a regular mug of tea often, there is something infintely better about making a true pot. Heating the pot up first with hot water, picking the tea, adding the hot water, putting on the “cozie”, letting it steep, and then finally pouring a steaming cup.

Here are my favorites:

Anything by Harney & Sons is wonderful. I love the Hot Cinnamon Spice and Chocolate Mint.

Trader Joe’s has an excellent selection. The Spiced Chai is especially great.

PG Tips is what my in-laws always have in the house. We always bring back bags from England whenever we visit.

About Cows.

 

Thanks, Wikipedia.

While I was in England in December, I visited a small, family run farm in a village in central England. The farm was lovely in many respects: it was small, the family cared about the cows, the area was beautiful, they were cared for. Part of me was hoping that a farm as lovely as this would make me feel better about the industry. And I almost did.

 

“We have to take the calves away from the mother within a day or so. Otherwise the cows will cry for three days or longer.”

Three days or longer? Really?

When I heard this (from the farmer), I had to bite the inside of my cheek. How is this okay? How is taking a baby hours after being born something that is done every day? Who am I to drink the milk of a mourning mother while their baby drinks formula from a bottle?

Comfort and nourishment are the very first things that we, as mothers, can give to a child.  I can only imagine that that primal sadness is somehow transferred to the person consuming it.

In living a gentler life, I simply cannot be a part of that.