Lettuce Lessons

 

Belly up to the (salad) bar? No thank you!
photo by Filipp Romanovski on Pexels

I hate to say “I told you so.”

 

Well, to be honest, it’s one of my favorite things to say. Ask my kids.

 

At any rate, I DID tell you so. I knew, long, long ago, that eating healthy was dangerous. And so, I embarked upon a prominently fatty and sugary diet. And it has never let me down. Think about it: when was the last recall of Hostess Twinkies? Land O’ Lakes butter?  And yet, over and over we’ve been warned about scary contaminants in produce. Green onions were a big no-no for a while. Then came romaine. 

And now, the dreaded cyclospora has appeared in iceberg lettuce, and has been causing severe and nasty intestinal illnesses. There is widespread vegan panic! Out with the baby spinach and bagged Caesar kits! All the health nuts are purging their fridges of acres of arugula and cilantro and basil and bibb. As they do that, they are also throwing away the “green” that is their $20s and $50s, moolah that was so foolishly spent on rabbit food. 

 

Preservatives are called that for a reason, people: they preserve us from disease! Oh sure, those Cokes and Entenmann’s coffee cakes may cause a little bit of tooth rot, and maybe a smidge of extra tummy. But the sacrifice of our appearance is well worth it when we consider the alternative: ending up in the ER because we insisted on ordering the house salad instead of the fries at that restaurant. Bonus, btw: my diet is easy to chew (see “tooth rot” above.) No crisp celery and crunchy carrots for me! My preferred snacks of cinnamon buns and brownies are both delicious AND easy on the gums. 

 

Now, I’m no purist. I do love fish and seafood, especially recipes like a Chinese specialty featuring deep fried shrimp coated with a sauce made with lots of honey, mayonnaise and sweetened condensed milk. And I have been known to indulge in some asparagus from time to time, so long as there’s plenty of buttery hollandaise smothering it. Then there’s good old chicken. Those watching their "BMI"s broil the heck out of it, seasoning with pepper (no salt!) and fresh herbs. Not me! Give me Poulet Cordon Bleu every time, where those bird breasts are over stuffed with Swiss cheese and ham, and topped with bread crumbs and cream sauce!

 

I don’t even know my BMI; when the doctor mentions it, I just put my hands over my ears and sing “lalalala” until he stops talking.

 

Full disclosure: I have been trying to knock off a few pounds, for my outward "look", and not my inward health. And so, just a month ago, I made a resolution to eat more green things, and cut back on the tater tots. Ironic, isn’t it? Now, to remain out of the hospital, I am being warned AGAINST those very same green things! 

 

Remember “scared straight”? Well, this recent leafy menace has me scared, straight back where I belong.

 

The bakery.

I love making these "healthy" pumpkin cheesecake cookies!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Applause, Applause

I admit it—I am becoming THAT crotchety old lady. At least 80% of what is going on in this country annoys the heck out of me, from the major horrors of the current administration, to the minor--but still irksome--stuff. You know:

People who gab in the movie theater as if they are watching Netflix in their living rooms. 

Drivers who go too fast or too slow; NO one seems to go “just right” anymore—except me. 

The poor quality of every modern appliance I buy. Are we supposed to replace our stoves and fridges every year? My late mother-in-law’s electric skillet still skillet-izes just fine after 70+ years! Those old skillet-crafting artisans should be proud!  

And so on.   

Lately, audience etiquette has been sticking in my craw—particularly the surfeit of insincere applause. Clapping much too much. Clapping between movements of classical works. Automatic standing ovations (with cheers and, yes, more applause) at the end of the most mediocre plays imaginable. I find myself grumpily remaining seated, hands in my lap, a silent (and pointless) protest against such boorishness.  

I decided to research the strange custom of putting our hands together like trained seals with their flippers, after any and every type of entertainment. Did you know that applause was originally designed to show DIS-pleasure, specifically to drown out BAD performances? Those ancient Romans would be appalled to see their Nays become today’s Yays! 

Nowadays, the ever-polite Japanese favor tejine (a formalized clapping style that brings events, business meetings and religious ceremonies to a dignified close), while the Scandinavians prefer slow, rhythmic claps that naturally lead to perfect unison. I think the deaf community has it just right—they silently wave their hands in the air to show their appreciation. I fear, though, if I did that in a theatre, the actors on stage would assume I was asking them a question.  

I think what bothers me the most, is that this age-old gesture is so overdone that it means nothing anymore. Let’s face it, isn’t a standing ovation primarily a way to easily scoot out of the venue and beat the other attendees to the parking lot? And don’t get me started on the raucous, beer-spilling sports fans and their incessant noise-making! I long to return to a quieter, more thoughtful time, when people applauded briefly, sincerely, and only if so moved.   

What do I think of applause for ME, you ask?  

That’s different. 

I’m heading to Des Moines, Iowa tomorrow to speak at the WELCA Triennial gathering. I have worked really hard on my presentation. I therefore expect a massive response, commensurate with all my effort expended. Clapping! Cheering! Standing on their seats! Whistling and hooting and hollering! Yes to all of it! I want those Lutheran gals doing The Wave, and shouting “Amen, sister!” after each of my brilliant remarks! I will be satisfied with nothing less than a revival tent level of enthusiasm!!!   

After that, everyone needs to just pipe down. Show some decorum, for Heaven’s sake.

Who's the Boss?

  

now we're talking executive desk!
(photo by Edwin Petrus on Unsplash)

Though my Grandpa Berrigan and my Uncles Jack and Gerry were all insurance executives, otherwise, mine has been an executive-less life. Oh, my dad embraced “executive time” long before Trump perfected it: start the day very late, finish the day early, account to no one about your activities. But sadly, Dad had neither the position, nor the salary, nor the employees, to be an actual “executive.” Generally speaking, a traveling salesman who only works from 11-3, making no sales, is a pretty sub-par traveling salesman. Also, Dad didn’t own a suit that quite fit; again, though, DJT, for all his quadrillions, apparently doesn’t either. 

 

Steve is CEO, CFO, and COO of Family Stages/Rehoboth Summer Children’s Theatre, our little entertainment empire. My hubby works all the hours Dad didn’t (and then some), and the actors who work for him respect him greatly. And we are much better off financially than the Cunninghams ever were. But there’s a certain je ne sais quoi that Stevo lacks. He dresses kinda like the guy who delivers the Starbucks order to the executives’ meeting. He could make more of a sartorial effort, I guess, but at his age, after 46 years of successfully running our business, why should he bother?

 

My work role was never what you’d call “executive” either. During my 20 years at church, I hired and fired no one. I gave no one a raise, or a warning. While I could make suggestions, mine was never the final word on anything. Visually, my office was quite small, with no fancy boss-level desk. It doubled as a dressing room for the acolytes on Sunday mornings. I admit I exerted very little effort in the decorating department, either. For at least a decade, a wall sported a giant poster left by my predecessor, featuring one verse from every book in the Bible (and not necessarily the best ones, either), written in calligraphy. I hated that thing, but didn’t take it down until it almost fell down. I also bought a little denim sofa for visitors (which included youth and adults coming to me for spiritual support.) It was cute as a button, but there was a reason it was on final clearance at Pier 1. One would plop down, anticipating a soft cushion, only to find it not nearly as comfy as a cement bench. The tears shed on that sofa were more about bruised bottoms than broken hearts.

 

But I discovered something exciting!! It’s called executive functioning!! This is the area of the brain (the prefrontal cortex) that governs focus, control of emotions, goal-setting and some other stuff I don’t remember. And we all have it! Even me! Yippee! I’m an executive!

 

But THEN I discovered something else: executive dysfunction (struggles with focus, self-control, and organization.) This is caused by ADHD, depression and anxiety, and some other stuff I don’t remember. This all sounds much more “Elise,” alas. 

 

So, I’m making an executive decision: 

 

No more thinking about executives!

 

I feel so...bossy!