Power Hungry

In that last post, I told you about being half the woman I was a few years ago. Well, more like 85% of the woman I was a few years ago. But whatever.

Last Lammas I gave up grain. Odd timing, I know. It’s a terrible food group y’all—don’t eat any of them. We’ve processed the hell outta anything with high nutritional value, we harvest grain without it sprouting—thereby stripping it of micronutrients, enzymes, antioxidants, minerals, life.

Since then I’ve felt better—seriously better—than ever. Grain, even “heart healthy whole grain,[1]” causes inflammation which sends even the healthiest bodies into a tailspin. (Read this article about “How Grains Are Killing You Slowly” for more details.) So upon what is a body to subsist?

Powerfood.

A few weeks ago I told you about my wonderment at honey and other bee-by-products and how, as a Witch with a close connection to and responsibility to the earth, I feel it necessary to be far more conscientious of my consumption than I was in the past.

Even after teaching Sustainability for a few years (and in doing, falling in love with Earthships in 08), I started a long learning-curve about the origins of American food. It is, ironically perhaps, in teaching Colonial Literature that I have learned the most about what does and what should happen in/on North American crop-soil.

As a result, I’ve looked around at my resources and (hope I’ve) started making more sustainable choices. In doing so, I’ve a new relationship with the body that, as I said, I’d been at odds with for about a half-decade. The body which is my primary magical tool.

I buy grass fed beef and pork (bacon!) from a local meat market; my eggs come from my own backyard; I’ve found a lovely man in the next town who makes grassfed Amish butter from a cow named Renee; and I usually get my vegetables from my own yard—this winter, not s’much; good thing I have some great girlfriends with a bountiful winter garden and a willingness to barter.

I steer clear of anything processed beyond recognition. I try to avoid boxes and bags altogether. (Unless they contain wine.[2])

And I miss bread and cookies on a daily basis.

But I don’t miss feeling like I felt there for a while: magicless.

Gradually I’m discovering what I do and don’t like.

• Farro—Love.
• Amaranth—Meh.
• Spelt—I’ve been using this for years and find that it is a great flour.
• Kamut—Where have you been all my life?
• Teff—The jury is still out.
• Chia seeds—OK, but. . . Can’t I just have my poppy and flax seeds back?
• Agave—Total morning buzz.
• Coconut oil—Use carefully. Usually the taste is neutral but every once in a while things end up tasting a little like coconut. And I hate coconut. Hate the taste, hate the smell, LOVE the water. So yeah . . .
• Coconut Water—Not a new discovery, but since I’m on the subject; when I was about 6, my uncle brought me a coconut and a machete. Love at first hack.
• Hazelnut Chocolate Milk—Best thing ever.
• Buckwheat Groats—Delish (especially with HONEY) and fills in the gap left by no-oatmeal.
• Fermented things like cabbage and Kombucha—Um, we will go with—they are growing on me.
• Quinoa—In all colors! Always been a favorite, but now there’s that whole Peruvian shortage thing and so I avoid it if I can. Sadly.
• Sorghum Beer—No. Just no.
• Apple Syrup—Your counters will never be the same but DOOOOO EEET!

Plus, I have a valid excuse to cook the foods I prefer to the foods my teenagers prefer: sweet potatoes over white, millet over rice, and homemade sprouted wheat pasta becomes a real task so I can avoid it based on arduousness rather than, “Because I’m Mom and I said, ‘No.’”

The kids still get cereal and occasional junk food. The trick is moderation. And I have to make sure I have lots of my favorite snacks around lest I break into the PopTarts. This became a deal-breaker when a “snow-storm” shut down the town and all of its grocers. Out of boredom and more boredom, I resorted to pork rinds—this local guy makes them fresh from his cart and seasons them to perfection. The cart smells like purgatory but the rinds are amazing.

I totally ate like the post-industrial bourgeoisie this week and I have a zit on my chin to prove it.[3] Now that the grocers are open again, I’m back to a guilt-free gut. Or I will be in about 48 hours.

Finally, and I don’t plug products—but this? This! Do yourself a favor and go snag a tub of Noosa yoghurt (Aussie spelling). It comes from Colorado in the U.S. from grassfed cows and it is to die for. The fruit on the bottom? Recognizably fruit. The yogurt on top might as well be custard. I trade in my glass milk jugs just to support my Noosa addiction. It ain’t like that other mass-produced stuff, y’all—and I *like* yogurt.

And, I don’t talk about this much—but the sex.[4]

And the mood.

And the skin.

And, of course, the magic.

My Gods approve of me taking better care of myself, BTW. Whereas I used to imagine self-care as an indulgence, I now see it as an act of spiritual devotion.

I know; I’m slow.

Spirituality doesn’t have to hurt.

Like, Without Tears, and all.

Wæs þu hæl,

~Angela

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[1] My arse.

[2] Not kidding. Bota Box is an acceptable table wine—especially the Zinfandel—and is more sensibly packaged than all that glass.

[3] Wait till I tell you about how I got (mostly) rid of my glabellular wrinkles—a.k.a. 11’s—without Botox.

[4] Without getting too much into it: “honeymoon cystitis.” Yow.

It only happened once as I try to be meticulous. I mean–you DO know where UTIs come from, right? But this one time exhaustion won out. Let me tell you—Uva Ursi and D-mannose. No antibiotics. (Disclaimer: I’m not that kind of doctor—I’m just telling you what worked for me.)