Frenchy Fifteen

This morning I was not an Early Riser. I dare say, I arose rather late. It was nearly 8:00 AM when I went down to the lobby in search of my morning Joe. Which actually turned out to be an escapade, because I guess the late waking Francais en vacances, don't ask for coffee at 8:00 AM. The garcon in the restaurant was confused at my request, but being a member of the diligent service staff at La Belle Rive hotel, he met my needs and accompanied me back to my room with a tray of cafe American and its accoutrement.


I have a theory behind my tardy reveille this morning. Basically, my alarm didn't go off. See, my standard wake-up time of 5:00 or 5:30 AM is not only insured by an external alarm, which I've not been setting on vacation, but also by a little internal alarm. Each morning my stomach sounds a growl telling me it needs to be fed again. This morning, there was no stomach growl. In fact, my stomach was still full. And that is a feeling, I haven't had since oh I don't know, Freshman year of college - the other time of my life when I was a late riser as I was perpetually full on Papa Johns bread sticks and Natty Ice.

See I've basically been on a diet since the seventh grade. I went off it Freshman year of college, indulged in the characteristic late night fare of undergraduate culture, and bulked up to the size of a linebacker, perhaps mistaking what sport I had signed up to play at Notre Dame.

After the noticeable shift in my proportions, I returned to my ongoing diet, and with varying success over the years, have remained focused on healthy food and exercise. During the couple months leading up to the wedding, I was really focused - focused on lots of greens and lean protein, lots of long runs and walks, less wine, a little more gin and diet tonics, and a staunch directive to stay clear of the dessert table. I did well I think too. Having sworn off scales earlier in the year, I don't know if I actually dropped any weight. But my dress fit, and I felt good in it.

But this week, and perhaps this morning, it hit - I went off my diet again. I haven't counted calories this week, I have definitely indulged, and the return of Frenchzilla starring yours truly, doesn't even scare me. I'm en France - home of not only the best dinners, but the best dining. And I'm here to take full advantage of it.

Peter and I packed up from Monaco yesterday, paid our eye popping bill, and meandered along the scenic coastline toward Antibes, the second destination on our honeymoon. We stopped in the small medieval town of Eze en route. It was charming - classic - out of a fairy tale. It had two parfumeries, a beautiful neo classical chapel, a Relais et Chateaux that I definitely want to stay in some day, and the most spectacular view.

You can make an appointment to make your own perfume, but it costs about 200 Euro. I opted for a couple bottles of the ready made stuff.

The quaint town of Eze was gorgeous.

The neoclassical chapel was built in the late 1700s by Antonio Spinelli

From there, we drove the rest of the way, until we reached our hotel, La Belle Rive, a boutique hotel on the Cap D'Antibes where F. Scott Fitzgerald stayed just after he published the Great Gatsby. It is pure luxury and pure France. And I have decided to go all out Frenchie with it.

That's our room - second floor in the niche with the window open. Spectacular!

This was how they made up our bed when we arrived.

Of course there is honeybee wallpaper in our room.

The most stunning dining room.

So I will take my coffee au lait.

I will not bust out the stow away Fiber 1 bars for breakfast. I will eat un baguette avec un peu de beurre. I will have salad nicoise for lunch with un verre de Champagne on the side. While strolling through the farmers market I will not turn down the slices of chevre and morbier that the fromagier is handing to me.

And at dinner, I will not have the poisson du jour sans beurre, I will embrace my John Dory, cheeks and all, being spooned over with buerre blanc.

Oh, and I'll take the petit gateaux aux noissettes as well and un autre verre de Champagne. Then I will slump down in my chair, sad that the gastronomic experience is over so soon.

I perk up knowing that there is a glacier around the corner from the Musee Picasso though.

Here's the thing though. In France, the portions are small and the Frenchies that dine on them are very small too. In fact, I haven't seen one oversized French person since we've been here. I've seen fat English, Americans and Deutschers, but not one French fatty. It's not to say that the French have perfect bodies, in fact they seem to all have a slight butter belly. But they are petite and above all seem relaxed and confident in their appearance, down to the proud display of their bosoms on the beaches.

While Americans spend significant time and resources finding the cure for unfluctuating weight, a flat stomach, skinny thighs, toned arms, and a perfect behind, the French know when to say when at the end of a meal, they walk it off, and they don't deny themselves the culinary pleasures that we tend to crave then overeat.

While, I might just gain the Frenchie five while we're here, because my body is not used to eating this richly, I'm kind of okay with it. Because getting a little butter belly, would make me that much more French, and if the people that we've met in the South of France do one thing right, it's live well. And their key - doing it with a side of butter.

Lo.

The Girls in White

There are some days when I turn into a little stinker - days when my typically cheery, optimistic personality, fades, turns sour, and my go-getter yeses, transform to no-can-do nos. I just gruff. And Peter so nobly responds, well aren't you a pooper. 

However, I made a recent discovery - that is, I unveiled the culprit behind Miss Stinker, and with it, a method by which to conquer her. It happened some time in between being a real poop on Friday evening and running through a downpour on Saturday morning. Lightening didn't strike, but I had a small aha! moment. Basically, I figured out that it was during those moments in life when I feel like I'm losing, that my mood will take a turn for the worst.

For instance, when my fool proof plan to not let work stress me out falls through, boom, pooper. When my eternal diet loses to the ever-so tempting fudge brownie a la mode on the lunch table, boom, pooper. When the girl sitting next to me at the bar looks way better in her jeans than I do in mine, poopity, pooper. And Friday evening, when I felt like I was losing every which way, the pooper came out in full effect. In the battles against work, the move, the wedding, time, the marathon, and then a splitting pain in my lower calf that led to ice packs and elevation, I was losing. Each theme was beating me down, and when Peter came home, I was a full blown stinker. Not even two gin and tonics, a hefty pork chop, and three helpings of tabbouleh could change my outlook. So I called it a poopy evening, and went to bed.

The next morning, I set out to run it off. I disparagingly left the house, certain that I was going to fail two miles in, because of my bum calf. But I fought through the initial discomfort, and then I reached a point where I didn't feel it. In fact, I embraced it, and honestly started running better than I ever had before. I ran for 2 hours and 40 minutes - 19 miles. And I could have run more. I ran away my poopy pout, and just about the time the rain started pouring down on me in Springbrook Prairie, a huge smile surfaced. I felt amazing. I went from concentrating on my calf and my form and every little step, to thinking in space - in my own space, about everything and anything and all the competition I was facing.
Me versus work. Bring on the pressure, I'll perform better. 
Me versus the move. I can so do retro land.
Me versus the other girls on the trail. They made me stand up straighter and run harder.
Me versus Lyla. I just gave her a big hug.

(And you're confused.) You didn't know about this wee competitor, who about nine months ago, I thought I had lost to - who I thought had stolen my white washed thunder. That is, until I saw her adorable little face for the first time - a face, that made me cry for ever thinking that it was my year and not hers.

On Sunday, it was her turn to wear white. Her beautiful Mom and dapper Dad helped her get dressed, and while I thought to myself, wow, I'm never going to look that good when I put on my white dress, I got teary-eyed for ever being a stinker - for ever thinking that there wasn't enough love in my family to go around. When in actuality, Lyla brought more love to our little corner of the world - and has transformed our family into something even better than it was before her arrival.

So here's where I net out as I head into a week in Chicago where I could really turn into a pooper. Sometimes getting behind, falling out of first place, can actually make you perform better. Sometimes the people that you think are your competition, are really your biggest fans. And sometimes, it just takes a long run to refresh your perspective.

Lyla, you looked lovely in white on Sunday. I love you so much. And I love your mom and dad so much. Now, you just better not spill any water on me on September 3.

International Conference 2011, I'm going for a long run right now.

Lo.

Why I Run

In an effort to make moving day, which is now only about a month away, a little less intimidating, I've been taking a couple things over to Peter's house every day. Usually an outfit and something else. I've made it just about half way through my closet, and through the process have pulled out and put on outfits that I haven't worn in years.  I've also learned a couple lessons. Namely, I'm not and probably never was a size 0, cocktail dresses are not appropriate for work, and the high (HIGH) waisted pants with a myriad of buttons probably should only come out again on Disco Night.  

Along with the outfit import every evening, I tend to move a couple other things - some books, some art supplies, some cooking utensils, and this week, some of my journals.

I have a large collection of journals - about a dozen volumes spanning from 1993 to 2007, just about the time that I started this blog. In moving them, I got the urge to read through them - to revisit the thoughts and angles on life that I had over the past two decades. Some of the entries were hysterical to read, especially the ones from grade school and high school. The college years were lean, with the exception of a very prolific and spiritual junior year. And around 2005, as I entered the pink and burgundy journals, things got a little scary, a little dark, a little hard to read.

It's difficult to quote this, but I want you to see.
Dated July 18, 2005 - just about four years ago. 
"I have reached a height of feeling fat, lethargic, gluttonous, gross, ugly, unwanted, undesirable ... the list could go on. I could probably fill this page with words describing my worthless self image. I've felt terrible the past two days and all I want to do is hide my face, bloated stomach, and fat legs in my house."
It goes on. It gets ugly. I'll leave it at that.

From 2004 to 2007, I suffered from an eating problem and with it a vicious disordered perspective on life and my role within it. Looking through my journals, sifting through my memories, I can blame any number of factors for it. I can blame the media, competitive sports, a chubby childhood, but I'm tired of pointing the finger. It doesn't matter how I got there. What matters is how I got over it - and as the pink journal bleeds into the burgundy one, and finally onto this blog, my words state it loud and clear. I got healthy, strong, and stable again thanks to my family - my dad, mom, brother, sister, Peter, and the many extensions of that unit, enabling me to see how much more I was than a body.

Having each one of them by my side - having them talk to me, play with me, jolt me, laugh with me, run with me, got me from an ultimate low to a soaring height - a high that I'm happily perched on today. 

July 21, 2011 - I'm healthy and happy. I am so thankful for it. And I get out of the house in the early morning, and run. Every. Single. Day. Because I'm healthy enough to do it. And when I run, I thank those people in my life - that support system that enabled me to eat right, live right, and get past the five mile point, so I could run marathons.


On October 9, I'm running the Chicago Marathon again. And again, I'm running it for Ronald McDonald House Charities - an organization that helps seriously ill or injured children find strength to heal by keeping their families by their side when they need it most. While I've never had to use one, I know the kind of support system that I find in my family and friends, is what others find within the walls of a Ronald McDonald House. Research shows, and I know, that children heal faster and cope better when their families are by their side, and I'm running to help more children have that option.

Please consider donating to Ronald McDonald House Charities so they can build more homes away from home for families trying to get their children better. 

Lesson learned from moving the journals - I'm happy to have closed that Chapter, and to have opened up an amazing one.

Lo.

THE Eleven Burger

THE Eleven Burger is a culinary masterpiece.

It is simultaneously a piece of art and a feat of engineering; many compartmentalized parts and one gastronomic being; a nutritionist's nightmare and a foodie's dream come true; the most powerful lunch you've ever had and the most absorbing late night meal you could imagine. It is also the ultimate conundrum for my inner fat girl.

The burger is near perfection. And from start to finish, the back of the house at Eleven pays acute attention to its every last detail. When you take that first bite, you can taste the care, concentration, and craft that have gone into each stage of its preparation.

The prep starts early in the morning. With Glen, the baker. When the last of the yinzer stallions are lumbering out of Mario's in the South Side at 2:30 AM, Glen is biking down Carson Street, over the 12th Street Bridge, through Downtown and into the Strip District. Just about a half an hour after the closing manager has diligently turned off every light in the restaurant and closed up shop, he opens it again - he turns on the lights in the eerily quiet space, and heads into his bakery.

He then beings a nocturnal baking frenzy - from 3:00 AM until the sun coaxes the scantily clad bar hoppers to begin their walks of shame, he mixes, kneads, proofs, bakes, and one would think rests here and there, but just when one step or one recipe is complete, he moves onto the next. In his artisan line-up every day are dozens of kaiser buns, topped with sesame seeds - fluffy, buttery, domed pieces of heaven. After pulling them out of the oven, Glen lines them up on baking sheets and lets them rest - lets them wait for their call to duty in the window of the bakery, their golden hides pompously ballooning in their air for all Smallman passerby to ogle.

As the buns are being lined up, the Executive Chef arrives to begin his daily culinary pursuits. He's a bit groggy. It seems like he was just there. It was a late night - the kitchen got backed up - he had to jump behind the line - the burn on his forearm is still fresh, sore. The flames are off though - the kitchen is quiet - and clean - it's a new day. Which means he needs new Daube and new bacon for his signature burgers.

The Daube takes a while so he starts with that first. It's a slow and low process - a magical melting and melding that turns a rough cut of veal shoulder into a stew of the most tender, succulent morsels of meat you've ever tasted. The bacon is made in house - Derrick does his own smoking and curing, so the slices that he needs for the burger are cut fresh daily.

One of the suppliers is at the back door - a local Pennsylvania dairy farmer who has a couple new cheeses that he wants Derrick to try. A Goat and a Cheddar. He makes a note for the manager to change the menu a bit - they will be perfect additions to the burgers today.

Derrick's team of cooks starts to arrive, and they begin staging and preparing for lunch - for the first burger orders of the day. They need to fry the onions, shape the patties, and mix the woozy butter. The sweet vidalia onions are thinly sliced and fried into crisp rings. The patty is pure Angus Beef. It doesn't try to be something else. It's proud of its farm fresh heritage - proud of its weight and heft and richness. The butter is injected with the masculine tastes of horseradish and Worcester and upon order, a dollop is added to each burger. 

It takes all these parts - the eager bun who is tired of waiting, the juicy combination of veal and angus beef, two slices of house-made applewood smoked bacon, crispy onions, cheddar cheese, Heinz 57, lettuce, tomatoes, a careful cook who excels at games like Topple, an excellent server who won't crack under pressure, and your mouth, opened very wide.  

In my dreams I have scarfed, inhaled, devoured this burger at least a hundred times. In reality, I have only taken one bite. Once. In the coat closet of Eleven. A mere taste of my friend Matt's shift meal - a taste that sparked drool and nearly a decade of day dreaming.

I took the recipe home with me and I made the whole masterpiece for Peter's birthday a couple years ago. My inner fat girl ate two of them, but the scared wannabe skinny girl who becomes a little too controlling, resisted and continued fantasizing.

Okay, what's my problem? Same old. I'm scared. I'm scared of what THE Eleven Burger and eating not just one bite, but ALL of it will do to my figure. It's caloric, it's fattening, it's heavy, and just thinking about it, sparks visions of my hips and thighs expanding into the thicker, heftier, younger versions of themselves. 

But perhaps because it's the summer, or because I'm working on trayliners which will hold the nation's best selling burgers, or because my burger buffet dreams are getting a little too vivid, I've been craving burgers right and left recently. And I'm bound and determined to not only make one and nibble at it here and there, but to EAT IT!

On the Fourth of July I tried Andouille burgers - a blend of ground chuck, Andouille sausage, pecans and garlic. Peter grilled them and I topped them with carmelized onion, spicy mayo, watercress, and blue cheese and I put rainbow slaw on the side. I did make myself a smaller one, but I'm proud to say that I ate the whole thing. Bun, burger, and all. And I didn't gain any weight. And the boy who ate two of them right next to me, still wanted to marry me - burger brazened thighs and all. 

The only problem is, I'm still craving an Eleven Burger. Bite, by bite. Burger, by bigger burger. I will get there. And I will make my dreams come true.

Lo.

Lunch at Tiffanys

I often wonder how much time I could save, or better yet, how much sooner I could finish my work for the day and head home, if I made a conscious effort to remove all the unnecessary, time-wasting activities.   

• Say, if I told the people that kept stopping by my cubicle to ask a question (or two or three), and then ultimately chit chat about things I have to feign interest in, to submit their questions in writing, I could save say, 25-30 minutes every day.
• Or if I didn't talk to anyone in the bathroom. Depending on how many times I went, that could easily save 10-15 minutes.
• If I didn't compulsively check my blog to see if any new comments surfaced - 10 minutes saved.
• If I signed off Outlook Messenger and neglected Ashlee's and Cristine's blinking messages, another 20 minutes.
• And what if I cut out the ultimate drain on productivity – lunch? 30 - 60 minutes saved.
• All in all, these time saving measures could get me home between 2:00 and 3:00 every day instead of 6:00 or 6:30. 

The thing is, as a communications professional some of these more social activities are unavoidable. You basically have to demonstrate your mean oral and written communication skills everywhere you go at the office - whether it's in response to the inane question, telling someone how great they look in the bathroom mirror, chit chatting in line to get your Rolo McFlurry, or using an IMing device to reach clarity on an issue, there are some conversations you can't avoid. But lunch and the lingered conversations that go along with it are avoidable. And for the past two years, skipping it has kept my workdays a little more compact. 

Generally, I'm very good at the no lunch thing. My Mom used to tell me that all she had for lunch was a can of Diet Coke, and as an absolute super woman, I believed it to be the liquid diet of champions. So I developed my own power lunch routine - Diet Sprite and a bag of 100-calorie popcorn. This dynamic lunching keeps me powering along until I reach absolute fatigue around 5:00.  I really don’t understand the whole ladies that lunch thing - talk about a drain on productivity. Even if I didn’t work I would much rather be a lady that runs, writes, colors, and cooks during the day, and a lady that gets cocktails at night.

But last week, during our staff meeting, Betty warned us about the health risks associated with eating lunch at your desk, and we were all encouraged to get up and get out for lunch. So I kept the popcorn in my cupboard this week and went out. Not once, not twice, but three times! Monday, Cristine and I had a very delicious and productive venting session. Wednesday, my whole team went to Labriola for lunch, which brought beneficial brainstorming activity. And then yesterday, as I was feeling more and more comfortable with lunch breaking, the ultimate break happened, perhaps making me a lunch convert for life. I set a date at high noon right underneath the Tiffany's sign. And Peter and I had lunch at Tiffany's. Rather than a brown bag, my lunch came in a little blue box. And it was delicious. 

Even with my lunch breaks, I've still been home by 6:00 PM each night this week. Basically, they really haven't set me back. In fact, they've been rather rejuvenating and I haven't been a ravenous monster in need of pre-dinner grazing when I get home. They also tended to refresh my thinking and help me deliver better results in the afternoons. And thinking about the sparkling band that will king my other ring on September 3, provided an impetus to work even harder because the money that came from the cost saving measures that I implemented recently, just got spent. 

Lo.

Perfectly Happy

When I was growing up, every summer we used to travel to Quincy, Illinois, a small town on the mighty Mississippi, to visit my Grandma and Grandpa. My friends that didn’t know the ins and outs of Quincy, thought it was just another Midwestern dot on the map colored in with strip malls, pick-up trucks, and corn fields. But for us, those that knew its secrets, Quincy never failed to deliver seven days of absolute joy. 

It always seemed to be nighttime when we arrived. After dinner, almost bedtime. We would be greeted with a tray of cookies, eight or nine rows deep, and permission to go ahead, have three or four, just don’t make your stomach upset. For a second grader with a stomach made of steel, I could have eaten ten Holly Dollies before I ever got sick, but appreciated the relaxed cookie rules. Bedtime was pushed back an hour or so, we all grabbed our favorite sweets, and we told our grandparents about our plays, dance recitals, ball games, and art projects while my Grandpa started to 'rest his eyes' in his chair.

Waking up in the morning meant homemade cinnamon-laced zucchini bread with a side of cream cheese (I always wondered who put cream cheese on their zucchini bread), radio rolls from Underbrink's bakery, and Wheaties - the breakfast of Champions that legend has it my Uncle Jim ate with conviction every morning. I went straight for the pastries. 

After breakfast we would turn over the geodes that lined the garden to find potato bugs, play wiffle ball with the big red bat, and toss a ball back and forth with a wooden scoop set that we called "tacroll." All were just a series of efforts to kill time before lunch - the main meal of the day - a feast that might include spaghetti and meatballs, roast beef, or strip steaks, served with sides of mashed potatoes, jello salad, green bean casserole, and buttery garlic bread.

Then it was time - time to pack up, pack in the Buick, and make our way to the pool, and not just any pool, Spring Lake. It was huge - Centennial Beach huge. It was basically a man made lake with a sand bottom, two slides, a diving board, lap lanes, beaches, and more space than you could ever imagine to play underwater tag - a game that my Dad excelled at because of his inhuman ability to run on the sand bottom of the pool. 

Our pruned hands and feet couldn't get us out. Only one thing could – snack time on F 59. And there was only one reasonable choice, a Deter’s Chipwich – a wonderful 400 calorie frozen confection that melted on the way down and filled that minor cavity I had developed after lunch.

Leaving the pool at the end of the day was always tough. Sad. But promises of dinner in the main dining room of Spring Lake, Maid Rites (a fried Pork Tenderloin sandwich for me), or fried catfish at the Patio, made it okay. 

In the evenings we would browse through the colorful encyclopedias in the attic, play Monopoly or Memory, gawk at the collection of porcelain dolls that my Aunt Ann still had displayed in her bedroom, reenact the founding of this great city with the extensive cowboy and Indian set, play ping pong, catch fireflies in mason jars, and eat one last Holly Dolly before being tucked in for bed by not only two people that loved me, but four.

When the week came to an end, and when it was time to say goodbye, my grandparents would stand in front of their house and give us hugs. Everyone got a little teary eyed. My Grandpa would give me one last squeeze and tell me, “always stay as happy as you are.”

Twenty-some years later, I still think about his simple instructions and assess how well I've done. I'm very happy. I'll give myself an A. But there are days here and there when I get sad - when I think I've let my Grandpa down - and when I hate that I can't be as carefree as I used to be under my grandparents watch in Quincy. 

Yesterday was one of those days. I had wrapped up the work day, and went downtown to try on my wedding dress for the first time. It was the wrong time of the month, and I knew it might not be the best idea to put it on. The attendant helped me step in, zipped me up, and said in so many words, "voila!" I didn't look in the mirror and think wow, this is perfect. In fact, I had a hard time even looking at myself. My chest was too big, my hair was a matted down mess, my makeup had smeared, my shoulders and arms looked bigger than I wanted them to, my stomach wasn't concave and of course my nails looked awful. I scrutinized myself to death and only felt uplifted when I saw the marveling faces on SGS, Peggy, and Katie who had come with me to gape and gawk at the gown. I felt terrible, and I didn't know why.

I called my sister afterward, and midway through our conversation, I think she hit the nail on the head. She told me that our family tends to think we need to be perfect in all that we do. And it's impossible. There is no perfect. And you're going to drive yourself insane trying to achieve it. Her deduction was ironic, considering that my boss told me something very similar a week before during my midyear review. I guess I have gained a somewhat unhealthy obsession with perfection - in my job, in my appearance, in my relationships. And when all my hard work doesn't translate into perfect results, I tend to get overly and overtly frustrated.

But here's the thing, my Grandpa never told tell me to stay as perfect as I am. In fact, during those summers in Quincy, I'm sure I didn't exhibit perfect behavior. My nails were chewed then too, my stomach stuck out, I probably had permanent chocolate stains on my face, I pouted till my Dad escorted me over the algae-covered part of the sand so I could dive from the tower with him, and I tended to lose most of the board games. But I was very, very happy. That's what my Grandpa saw in me - and he never wanted me to lose it.

When I'm with Peter, I'm just that happy. And I know whether I'm sweating or bloated, whether my hair is dismantled or my nails are chipped, whether I trip and fall or end up leading Peter through our first dance, that Peter will think I look beautiful, just the way I am. And like my sister said, I will feel like a princess - not a perfect one, but a perfectly happy one who will make my Grandpa proud. 

Lo.