Crunchy Granola . . . . . Sweet!!

I love Greek yogurt.  I love it so much that I try to find as many things to eat with it as I can.  Today I decided I need to make some granola.  I searched around, reviewed some recipes, asked friends, and came up with the following.  It is very important that the song at the bottom of the page be played sometime during the making of the granola.  In fact, it is almost critical if you are over the age of 50.

I made this in two large batches.  You can cut it in half for one large baking sheet or 3.5 cups of granola.  I like to cook in bulk so I made two batches of 7 cups and added different things to each batch.

Preheat oven to 325 degrees.

Mix all the dry ingredients:

2 cups of rolled oats (Bob’s Red Mill)

½ cup of chopped nuts (I used pecans)

6 tbsps of pumpkin seeds

4 tbsps of sesame seeds

¼ tsp  salt

1 ½ tsps. Cinnamon

6 tbsps. Ground flax meal  (Bob’s Red Mill)

Mix the wet ingredients in a separate bowl:

6 tbsps of maple syrup

6 tbsps of unsweetened applesauce

1 ½ tsps. Vanilla ( I always use real vanilla – it is well worth it).

1 tbsp. of light oil (not olive)

Combine wet ingredients with dry and mix thoroughly.

Spread over two baking sheets lined with parchment paper.  The parchment paper is important because it soaks ups any oil and keeps your granola from oven frying. 

Bake for 20-25 minutes stirring every five minutes (you can clean the kitchen, vacuum, do laundry, and dance in the minutes between stirrings).  I knew it was almost done and all dried out when my glasses stopped steaming up each time I opened the oven.

Pour the granola into a shallow pan or bowl and let it cool completely before adding other ingredients.

I added dried blueberries to one batch (right) and a mix of dried cranberries, golden raisins, cherries, and blueberries (left) that I found at Ocean State Job Lots to the other. 

Yummy!!

Some Thoughts Reading and Writing on a Cool Sunday Morning

Cool Sunday mornings seem to lead one to contemplation.  There is crispness in the air that relieves a significant amount of brain fog and creates a desire to find something creative and inspiring to fill the day.  It may be finding just the right piece of poetry, an essay that touches the soul, or looking up to see where the sunlight hits the edges of the leaves as they are wind tossed.

I never know what these days will bring.  I want to do more than I feel capable of at the moment.  My spirit wants to climb a mountain, paddle down a river, or ride a horse across a field.  My body wants to crawl back in bed under warm blankets with a hot water bottle and a furry cat.  My travels these days seem to be limited to where books can take me.  Right now I am living in India during the time of the Buddha.  Last week I was in Albania, Syria, and Turkey at the time of the genocide of the Albanian people. For most of July I was in Boston and its surrounding areas solving crimes with Rizzoli and Isles.  This coming week I am planning on going to the mythical land of Westeros.  I will be coming late to that party.  I haven’t read Game of Thrones yet for the same reason I never did heroin.  I am afraid I would like it too much.

This next week I am physically traveling to New Orleans for a conference.  Unfortunately that means that most of my time will be spend in a hotel conference center.  I hope to arrive early enough to be able to take a walk along the river and maybe to the French Quarter.  The New Orleans I want to see doesn’t really exist, though.  I want to walk through graveyards and visit a voodoo queen.  I want to dress in red and attend a mulatto ball and walk the streets with the characters from Isabel Allende’s Island Beneath the Sea or see one of Ann Rice’s vampires in the shadow of a cathedral. 

Reading has been both a blessing and a curse in regards to travel.  I went to England in 2005 and realized the London I wanted to visit was long gone, the blood of Anne Boleyn and Henry IIIV buried beneath the double decker buses and Mark and Spencer’s.  In 2007 I was able to see enough of Tibet to get the feel of what it must have been like to live there before the Chinese occupation, but Lhasa was merely a ghost of its former self.  Alexandra David-Neel would be heartbroken to see the Potala palace surrounded by Chinese military and tourists shopping for Western goods in gated shops, as was I, and is the Dalai Lama.  I am so grateful to those writers who chronicled their experiences during those times so I am able to be there whenever I pick up a book.

What does that mean about these times I live in now?  Will anyone ever want to read about the experiences of a woman living in the late 20^th and early 21^st century?  Will they find my experiences so compelling that they would want to time travel here and be a part of this world?  I don’t know.  I can’t imagine why unless they are interested in a political environment that is so divisive that I only wish I could travel into the future to see how this all ends up.  Or do I?  It is frightening.  Or would that glimpse into the future give me the hope I need?  Would a poor woman, black or white, from the world of the American south in 1840 wonder at my complaints and tell me to get a grip and appreciate that I am able to make choices that they never had? 

I guess that is what reading does.  It gives another perspective.  It may be fiction, fictionalized history, or one person’s view and interpretation of an era.  There is no real knowing.  It is just the reality of the individuals and the expression through the lens of their point of view. 

On this Sunday morning, that is what I contemplate.  My reality changes from one moment to the next.  My history will only be known by me and may be interpreted by others, but no one will truly know my story.  When I do tell it, I will only tell what I want known, what I feel is of value, and I may leave out bits and pieces in order to make myself look better or tell it all in order to explain all of who I am.  But then who would really be interested?  It doesn’t have to be everyone, just enough people who want to know what it was like to be someone like me in this time, at this place.  But it will only be my story.  No assumptions should be made that my story is the same as any other woman during this time in history.  It’s just mine and even my viewpoint changes from time to time, making my story different on one Sunday morning than it would be on another.

Linda’s Stuffed Eggplant with Quinoa and Asiago Cheese

Today was the first day that I felt like starting up the oven and baking something healthy and delicious!

2 medium eggplants

3 tbsps of olive oil

Fresh oregano

One medium onion - chopped

4 large cloves of garlic - minced

1 large green pepper diced

1 medium bunch of swiss chard

1 can of Italian style dice tomatoes, drained

½ pound of Asiago cheese

1 box of Nature’s Early Choice Quinoa – mushroom and vegetable medley – cooked according to package instructions.

Cut eggplants in half and scoop out insides leaving a half inch wall.  Sprinkle each half liberally with salt on the inside and place skin side up in large colander.  Chop the remaining eggplant and place in smaller colander, sprinkle liberally with salt.  Leave for 20-30 minutes while starting the quinoa.

When the quinoa has about five minutes left to cook start the stuffing for the eggplant.  Rinse the eggplant shells and pat dry.  Place in a large oiled baking dish. 

Rinse the remaining eggplant.

In a large heated skillet place four small cubes of frozen oregano and extra virgin olive oil (or the equivalent).  As they thaw add the onion.  After two minutes add the garlic, followed shortly after by the green pepper, swiss chard, tomatoes, and eggplant.   Simmer for just a few minutes and stir in the quinoa.  Crumble all but four slices of the asiago cheese and add to the mixture.

Fill the eggplant shells and top each with a slice of asiago cheese.

Bake at 350 degrees for 45 minutes or until the cheese is bubbly and brown.  Let it rest for a few minutes after you take it out of the oven and then enjoy.

Flying Monkeys and the "F" Word

Denial is often a wonderful way to keep from facing the distasteful facts of life, and it can often also allow whatever one is trying to avoid to grow into something that can no longer be ignored.  Sort of like ignoring a small drip from a pipe until your basement is flooded.  It may be easy to do for a while but eventually you have to start bailing out the water.

That is what the past fifteen years have been like for me.  In 1997 I was diagnosed with fibromyalgia.  There were a ton of reasons I didn’t like the diagnosis.  First of all, the medical community at that time seemed to use the syndrome as a place to put things with which they did not want to deal.  Hey, neither did I.  Especially because of the second reason I didn’t like the diagnosis.  Fibromyalgia is something that has to be managed.  You can’t just take a pill for two weeks and it goes away.  Surgery doesn’t remove it or fix it.  It just hangs around like a crazy relative that decides to move in next door.

The biggest reason I didn’t like it, though, was that no matter what was happening to me it was attributed to the fibromyalgia.  Urinary tract infections, whole body aches, irritable bowel, exhaustion, poor sleep, depression, itching, and the list goes on and on and on.  I started to worry that something would start to happen in my body that wasn’t related to the fibromyalgia but it would be disregarded and put under the fibromyalgia category until it was too late.

However, now it is because of that second reason I have to put on my big girl panties and surrender to the diagnosis but not to the illness.  I need to really dedicate myself to managing it.  I don’t want to but I have to.  I am not one to manage.  I tend to let things happen.  I take pride in doing a good job, but I am one on whom the details often get lost.  It is a struggle for me to manage car maintenance and personal finances, much less a medical condition that requires that I listen to my body.  One of the reasons I don’t do diets well is all that counting of points or calories or grams or servings or whatever makes me anxious and I end up focusing too much on the food.  I am fairly mindless in my approach to life although I have been making attempts over the past few years to be more mindful.

Why am I now ready to surrender and face the facts about this?  Flying monkeys.  Yes, those minions of the Wicked Witch of the West that swoop down on unsuspecting scarecrows, pummel them to the ground and tear the stuffing out, spreading it hither and yon.  Those damn monkeys have become a regular part of my daily life and they really need to go.  I am still trying to figure out why they appear.  I had a ton of tests done in hopes that there was something wrong that could be fixed, but no.  Again, it is attributed to the fibromyalgia and most likely the related issue of adrenal fatigue. 

I know all the reasons behind why this is happening in my body.  It probably all originates from when I had third degree burns from a very hot cup of coffee I managed to pour on myself at the age of 15 months.  Some of the research on fibromyalgia says that the body does not handle pain messages well.  My neural pathways related to pain were probably screwed up when the accident happened.  Other life stressors probably haven’t helped either. 

Fortunately, over the past fifteen years there has been enough research done on the syndrome to gie it more credibility and I now feel more confident about it.  It no longer seems to be a catch all.  New information is coming out about it all the time.  I also have a doctor who knows what to do and she also manages the syndrome for herself.   I trust her.

I have just completed the first step - admitting that I have a problem.  It is not my fault, but it is my responsibility to do those things that help my body.  I need to rest when it tells me it wants to rest.  I need to exercise when I don’t want to.  And I need to eat better.  Rumor has it that sugar and white flour (why does this keep coming up?) are fuel to the fire and need to be cut out.  I also need to continue to follow through with massage and acupuncture treatments.  I can’t overdo or under do.  Moderation is a word that does not normally describe my life style.  However, it needs to.    Or else I will continue to be fighting off flying monkeys or wondering who has made a voodoo doll of my body and is poking it with needles. 

I didn’t want to share this journey.  However, I realize it is a big part of my life, but I won’t let it define me.  As I said above, I will surrender to the diagnosis, but not to the illness.