These last few weeks have been difficult, professionally. I'm at somewhat of an impasse, and it's not easy to put on a happy face at work when one is at the proverbial crossroads. It's times like this when even the small acts of friends make the most impact.
In the last few weeks, both Kat and Megan have sent me cards (Kat also sent one to HRH, who was over the moon at getting mail). To find hand-addressed envelopes among the coupons of things I'd never buy and offers for a better mortgage rate can fill even the darkest of days with some sunshine.
And then I got Mads's package.
It's once again time for a new rotation in the OKMH version of Birchbox, and it could not have come at a better time.
The point of this every-other-monthly package exchange isn't simply to find an excuse to get a present in the mail six times a year. While that's a nice perk, the seven of us (yes, seven, for Beka is finally finished with her master's degree and can participate in our reindeer games as originally planned) have taken this opportunity to craft boxes that are designed for someone else. It's about knowing and identifying with someone else and creating a lasting friendship.
Mads packed a box that was Exactly What I Needed.
Safety Inspector Zooey ensures package security and checks for hot dog contraband
The theme we selected for our February exchange was "winter necessities." This might be easy for our friends up North, but Mads, Jeanne, and I all live in more mild winter climes, so a package of parkas and mittens wasn't going to cut it. And Mads nailed it.
I give you Winter Pamper Yourself Because You Deserve It.
The goods:
Vanilla almond caramel tea
Fuzzy knee socks
HOMEMADE bubble bath
All-natural soap
Candle (scented with yumminess)
Adult Capri Sun Wine that I can drink while in the bathtub
It was like The Universe told Mads that I needed a little something to take care of myself, and she heeded that message. Everything in this box is perfect for me. I can sip the entire cube a little wine while I sit in a bath full of bubbles, inhaling the scent of a delicious candle, and then, once dried and properly pajamaed, slip on those toasty socks (and I DO get ice cube toes!) and have a little tea as I indulge in Ghost Hunters or Ghost Adventures or Haunted Collector or Ghost Mine or maybe even (I'm almost ashamed to admit it) Finding Bigfoot. The perfect mental health break if I ever planned one.
Many thanks, Mads, for sending me a little box with a lot of love!
And, for some other ideas of what you can ship to help ease those winter blues, check out:
what I sent to Jeanne (Inside NanaBread's Head), or
Growing up, one of my major objectives was to see how many marshmallows I could stuff into my mug of hot chocolate without sacrificing any of that delicious drink. Since my mom tried to keep junk food out of the house, marshmallows were a rare treat anyway, usually reserved for the chilly holiday season, so I hoarded them, often sneaking a few from the bag and right into my maw when she wasn't looking.
The apple doesn't fall far, does it?
She's just more brazen than I was.
When the Stay-Puft Marshmallow Man was destroyed at the end of Ghostbusters, all I wanted to know is if there was a giant s'more making effort. The lack of closure here still haunts me.
The first time I ever had Lucky Charms, in college, I was horrified at what qualified as a "marshmallow" and was kind of thankful I'd been ignorant of the horrors within the red box for my entire childhood.
As I've gotten older, I have marshmallows more and more rarely, partly because I have fewer occasions to partake in them, but mostly because I'm less and less enthralled with the mallows that are found at the grocery store. While surely my taste buds have changed, I can't help but feel that the commercial marshmallows have gone further and further away from that treat the ancient Egyptians made from the marsh-mallow plant sap thousands of years ago (insert nostalgic sigh).
Cornstarch overload aside, I still yearn, each time I treat myself to a cup of cocoa, to fill the top quarter third of my cup with that sweet, gooey confection.
Since I'd been obsessing about marshmallows for a good while, when my group of blogging friends, whom I've affectionately come to call The Theme Weavers (prepare for the parody song soon) decided to see how many sweet confections we could put together in a week, I knew that I needed to try my hand at marshmallows.
The Internet let me know that I had made The Right Decision when, a few weeks ago, Jenni Field, the brilliant and wonderful personality behind Pastry Chef Online, hosted a Google+ hangout (think live webchat) on the art of these lovely candies. Even though my old laptop kept freezing on me, I saw enough to let marshmallows emerge from the murky shadows of candy-making, giving me the courage to get in the kitchen.
I followed Jenni's recipe and directions (which are at the same time thorough and entertaining) carefully. I cannot add anything helpful to that recipe, and all the credit of my success is due to my ability to follow Jenni's direction.
I need to point out, however, that I made two minor alterations to suit my needs:
Instead of cocoa powder, I added 1 Tbsp finely ground lemon zest into the water and gelatin mixture (whenever I use a lemon, I zest it and then freeze the zest, so I have a large stash that's nice and dry and easy to grind up in the spice grinder).
Instead of vanilla extract, I used my homemade lemon extract.
Obviously, I was going for a lemon theme.
After the syrup had reached the proper temperature and all ingredients whipping away (Watson, my KitchenAid, has never worked at full strength before, so it was a big night for both of us), I couldn't help it. I had to taste.
Whip it good!
Right then I knew.
You guys.
These marshmallows are life changing. Seriously. They are going to change everything you ever thought you knew about marshmallows.
Oh, the lemon aroma and flavor is intense, and while I had dreamed of a lemon marshmallow, the citrusy flavor coupled with the marshmallow's texture was a little surprising at first. But then I had a secondthird fourth marshmallow, and all was right with the world. The bright tartness of the lemon balances that sometimes overwhelming sweetness that is The Mallow.
But what about fitting a whole bunch of marshmallows into my cup of cocoa?
The good news is that with these bad boys, I only need one.
While you're still reeling from all the mallow-y goodness, please make sure that you check out all the other amazing sweets made by my friends. We've got us a sugar fix to please any size sweet tooth.
In my attempt to read more books intended for grown ups (instead of those directed at 4-year-olds), I recently signed up for the online book club hosted by Jamie over at Couch to Ironwoman. I'm not sure I'll be able to get in a book every month, but I'll do my best.
This is my first month participating, the book that Jamie assigned us (yes, I look at it like a school assignment, which, truly, I revel in) was Running on Empty, by ultramarathoner Marshall Ulrich.
I am not an ultramarathoner, as you know. Heck, I'm not even a marathoner (yet?). So at the outset, I was a little intimidated. After all, this book is about Ulrich's 3063-mile trek across the country, from California to New York.
Today I ran 3.06 miles, so... there's the connection?
First, a bit of vital information.
From Ulrich's website, the book is described as:
Filled with mind-blowing stories from the road and Marshall Ulrich's sensational athletic career, this is an incredible read with a universal message for athletes and non-athletes alike: face the toughest challenges, overcome debilitating setbacks, and find deep fulfillment in something greater than achievement.
Book ISBN: 978-1-58333-490-4 (paperback - $16.00)
Available on e-reader as well (I downloaded a copy for my iPad)
All right, now, what did I gain from reading a book about a man who runs distances I'm not sure I even want to think about?
The aspect of this book that jumped off the page to me was how Ulrich began running. In the wake of the battle and subsequent passing of his first wife, Jean, to breast cancer, he took up running. He ran to cope with the pain, and he ran away from that pain, too. This first chapter, which details their marriage and Jean's decline, tore my heart apart. I wasn't sure that I was going to get through the rest of the book, to be honest with you.
Because I started running in memory of my dad, who died from complications related to colon cancer. Running - any distance that I've gone, from one mile to 13.1 - helps me cope with the sadness that I still have, over 13 years later. Running gives me an outlet, helps offer me time to put things into perspective, and offers me a way to channel that grief into something positive (I try to focus on participating in race events that are charity-related).
Of course, Ulrich's admission that he allowed himself to use running to run away from pain and grief more than a way to balance that pain tore me up, too. I grieved for the time he didn't spend with his (now adult) children and the marriages that ended in divorce. While the candid nature of these descriptions was honorable, and hopefully, for Ulrich, cathartic, it frustrated me, too, that he allowed himself to follow that path for so many years. The main reason I haven't pursued a full marathon is because of the time commitment. My daughter is still young, and she still depends on me for so much. And yes, I have a husband who loves his child more than anything, but his job often requires late nights at meetings, so I am often the parent who gets her up in the morning and who puts her to bed at night, with a full time job (two, if we're counting the parenting that I do while I work) in between. I am not willing to sacrifice the time I have with her at this young age. God (and joints) willing, there will be time. Now is not the time.
Now, we English teachers love looking for metaphors in everything. See that billboard? It's a metaphor. See that roadkill? Metaphor. Cat puke on your kid's favorite shoes? Yep, metaphor. It's like a sickness. So it was in that vein that I read Ulrich's tale of running across the country. For me, it really did give a small sampling as to the metaphor that is the human spirit. Ulrich literally was able to run down Memory Lane. His family and friends who were able ran parts of the way with him, and he was able to spend other times contemplating his relationships with others (at times coming closer and at others diverging paths). While I can't imagine running that far in such a short amount of time (I admit that I have ruminated on an Arizona to Washington trek, though), I can see the draw. The run changed Ulrich, and it's apparent that he had many epiphanies and "a-ha!" moments along the way that allowed him to come out of the trans-con a better parent, husband, and man (not that he was truly horrible before, I need to note; there is just always room for us to improve ourselves, even without running across the country).
That this amelioration was the end result, to me, makes the blisters, the injuries, the fallouts, and everything else worth it.
And the metaphor I can apply to my life? If Marshall Ulrich can run across the length of the United States (he has actually criss-crossed the country, going west-east and north-south) and come out the other side having made himself better, then any of us can make similar improvements upon ourselves and our souls by dragging ourselves out of bed in the mornings and giving thanks that we can lace up while we do. And we can do it in spite of injuries, small or large, as long as we are able to deal with them properly, just like we need to deal with the pain that is part of the human experience (we can't know joy if we can't know pain).
Thanks for the read, Jamie! Next month's book is Chrissie Wellington's A Life Without Limits. I'm hoping to be able to catch this one, and I'm looking forward to what April and May have in store as well. In the meantime, I'm hoping to be able to find and watch the documentary Running America, which details Ulrich's transcontinental run.
If you are a reader and a runner and would like to hop aboard this online book club train, click here for all the details and to see what books the group has already read.
What books have you read about running that have inspired you (and maybe scared you a little, too)?
What have you learned from reading about running?
Would you run an ultra-marathon or participate in another feat of athleticism?
When I was growing up, my parents had a pasta maker that was, on occasion, hauled out. I was entranced by all its shiny, silvery parts, and I knew that when it made its rare appearance on our kitchen counter, chances were good that the end result was going to be fettucine. Which, in hindsight, probably helps explain my ardor for a truly delicious fettucine alfredo.
I've wanted a pasta attachment for Watson, my Kitchenaid mixer, for quite some time. Actually, I want a shiny, silvery pasta maker of my own, but our kitchen is too small and crowded already, so we certainly don't have need for yet another gadget or gizmo, no matter how pretty and shiny it is (have I mentioned it was shiny?). But we don't have a pasta maker or a pasta attachment.
That hasn't quelled my desire to try my hand at making my own pasta.
On Sunday, I got a wild hair and needed to make that pasta. I had, the night before, made an homage version of my favorite childhood pizza, the Gay 90's Special from Dirty Dave's Pizza Parlor in Olympia, Washington (my hometown). The combination of pepperoni, crumbled sausage, onions, and cashews is something I must have whenever I go back home; it's not negotiable, and usually it's our first stop when we roll into town.
My version was made with soprassata, since I couldn't find any pepperoni, crumbled Italian sausage (which, fortunately, was weak on the fennel), and of course the onions and cashews. It was good, but I"m still working on the recipe before I can call it "perfected."
Anyway, this post isn't about the pizza. The only reason I mention it is that I had a bunch of leftover sausage and soprassata (you try easily finding amounts of each that are appropriate for one homemade pizza; I dare you). Since I'm trying my darndest to toss out as little food as possible, Sunday, as I baked my biscuits, sausage gravy (made with breakfast sausage, not the leftover Italian sausage), and multigrain bread, I was on a hunt to find a recipe that could use both.
At first, I thought I might head out and get some wonton wrappers and make ravioli.
But then, you know, lasagne.
I could make a bolognese with the leftover meats, which would actually be easy; the majority of the time spent making a bolognese is dedicated to the "simmer, stirring occasionally" part of the recipe, so I could do other things.
LIKE MAKE MY OWN PASTA.
I opted for the whole wheat version that is given in my Food and Wine Pasta cookbook (one of the three cookbooks my dad got me as I went off to college). I got out the flours and the extra large eggs for which I made a special trip to the grocery store, took a deep breath, and got to work.
I sifted out the flour.
I made a well.
I cracked the eggs.
I poured the eggs into the well.
I mixed the flour in.
I kneaded.
I kneaded.
And I kneaded some more.
And all the while, my internal dialogue was going "Oh, s***, this dough is SO tough, how is it ever going to be pasta? I'm going to have to go buy a box of pasta. Oh, s***!"
Bear in mind that I was kneading for 10, terrifying minutes.
As time went by, the dough became more workable, more elastic, and I began to breath a little easier. I let it sit as I frantically ran to the store after realizing we were out of Parmesan.
When I got back, I threw a bed sheet over the kitchen table, floured it, and got to rolling.
I rolled and rolled and stretched and rolled and rolled and stretched.
I basically got an upper body workout between the kneading and the rolling, which is another benefit of this process. Rest day, schmest day.
When the pasta was thin enough, I cut it into large-ish rectangles and triangle-like shapes and set them aside until it was time to boil, drain, assemble, and bake.
All rolled out and ready to boil
Y'all. Make. Your. Own. Pasta.
Maybe not every time you want it (it probably won't be worth it on a Wednesday night when all you want is buttered noodles), but seriously, get out your rolling pin and just do it.
First of all, yes, it's time consuming, but it's actually easy. Why was I so terrified? It took two ingredients (OK, technically three since I used two types of flour) and an arm workout, and it was so, so... SO worth it.
Second, it tasted great. I knew that everything would be OK when I boiled the noodles (for three whole minutes), and they smelled like...noodles. I started getting confident when I drained and dried them and got set to make....this:
Layers of bechamel, bolognese, and Parmesan between those noodles
Of course, the true test was to actually taste the finished product.
The Husband went back for thirds. THIRDS!!!!!!! He sometimes gets seconds of whatever we're having, but it is a rare occasion that he goes back a third time, and I would be lying if I said I wasn't excited. Basically, this is how I see that meal now:
But really, who wouldn't want thirds of this lasagne, loaded down with a garlic-infused bechamel instead of the standard ricotta and a bolognese instead of just "red sauce and meat." Oh, and homemade noodles. A bit thicker than they might have been if I'd been able to roll them through a pasta maker, they had a great chewiness and overall mouthfeel to them that was the best reward for making them instead of calling it in and buying a box.
This was the perfect lasagne.
And it made leftovers.
Lasagne con Ragu alla Bolognese
(adapted from Food and Wine)
For the bolognese:
3 slices bacon or 3 oz pancetta, chopped*
2 Tbsp butter
2 Tbsp olive oil
1 onion, chopped
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 carrot, chopped (I like to use 2)
1 rib celery, chopped (optional; I prefer to leave it out)
1/2 pound spicy Italian sausage (not in casings)
1/2 pound other ground meat (I prefer chorizo or lamb for good flavor)**
1 1/2 cup pinot grigio (or other dry white wine)
2 cups vegetable stock (you can also use chicken stock if you've got it, but I think that the vegetable stock gives the end product a better flavor)
1/2 tsp salt
3 Tbsp tomato paste
1/4 tsp grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
1/2 cup 2% or whole milk
For the noodles:
1 cup whole wheat flour (if using a pasta maker/attachment, at 2 Tbsp to this amount)
3/4 all-purpose flour or whole wheat pastry flour
3 extra large eggs
For the bechamel:
6 Tbsp salted butter
6 Tbsp all purpose flour
2 cloves crushed garlic
4 cups (1 quart) milk
1/8 tsp grated nutmeg
1/2 tsp salt
1/2 tsp freshly ground black pepper
For assembly:
1 cup (or more) grated Parmesan cheese
*If you freeze your bacon/pancetta/soprassata for about ten minutes before chopping with a very sharp chef's knife, it will be a much easier process.
**I used leftover soprassata, and I used whatever I had leftover, which was not equal to 1/2pound. However, I think that would probably be overpowering, flavor-wise.
In a large saucepan or Dutch oven, cook the bacon/pancetta over medium-high heat until it starts to crisp. Remove and discard all but 2 Tbsp of the fat.
Add the butter and olive oil to the pan over moderately low heat. Once the butter has melted, add the onion, garlic, carrot, and celery (if using) and cook, stirring occasionally, until the vegetables are soft. Add the pancetta back in along with the sausage and our ground meat of choice (even if you are subbing in something like the soprassata that I used). Cook, breaking up the meat, until browned. Add the wine; increase heat to moderately high and simmer until nearly all the liquid has evaporated. Stir in the stock and salt; lower heat to barely simmering and cook, stirring occasionally, until almost all the liquid has evaporated (this will take a few hours if done correctly; use that "free time" to prep the pasta, etc., as well as to grab a snack and perhaps a glass of the wine you used in the cooking). Stir in the tomato paste, milk, nutmeg, and pepper, and simmer for another 15 minutes. Alternately, you can cover the pot and turn the heat to low to keep it on the stove until you need it.
In a large bowl, sift the flours together and make a large well in the center. Whisk the eggs together and pour into the well. With a fork or your clean hands, gradually work the flour into the eggs. Once you have the semblance of a single mass, turn the dough onto a floured surface and knead the dough, sprinkling with more all-purpose flour if it gets sticky, until it forms a smooth, elastic ball (this takes about 10 minutes). Wrap tightly in plastic wrap and set aside for 10-15 minutes to allow the gluten to relax (this makes it easier to roll out; if you're using a pasta machine, you can skip this step and roll it immediately).
Turn the dough out onto a large floured surface (I covered my kitchen table with a clean bed sheet and floured that, since I didn't have a surface that was truly large enough for my needs - then I just tossed the sheet into the wash). You can cut it into pieces to work a smaller piece at a time, if you want.
Roll the dough with a long, narrow rolling pin in a smooth, back and forth motion, giving the dough a quarter turn after every couple of rolls.
Now, ideally, you'll also stretch the dough every so often, starting when it's 1/4-inch thick. You do this by wrapping the top quarter of the dough over the rolling pin, holding it securely with one hand. Then, with your other hand, hold the bottom of the dough in place while you stretch it away from you. Give the dough a quarter turn and repeat 7 times. I was terrified of this and didn't stretch my dough as much as I should have.
Repeat the process of rolling and stretching twice more, until your dough is about 1/16-inch thick. The litmus test is that you should be able to see your hand through the dough (I was still scared I'd rip the dough, so mine wasn't quite as thin).
Cut the dough into large rectangles (I made a few triangles and random quadrilaterals around the edges). Put them on a baking sheet dusted with flour until ready to boil.
In a large saucepan, melt the butter, with the crushed garlic, over moderate heat. Add the flour and cook, whisking constantly, for about 1 minute. Whisk in the milk and bring to a boil, still whisking constantly. Once boiling, reduce the heat and simmer for about 5 minutes, stirring occasionally. Stir in the nutmeg, salt, and pepper. Remove the garlic before using (or, if you're lazy like me, just leave it in - someone will get a tasty surprise, like an edible, garlicky king's cake treat).
Boil a large pot of heavily salted water (Mario Batali's advice is to use water that "tastes like the sea"), and cook the pasta until almost tender, about 3 minutes. Drain and rinse with cold water (usually you don't drain pasta, but since we are making lasagne, all my resources say yes) and dry on tea towels (or paper towels).
Preheat your oven to 350°. Lightly oil (use olive oil) a 9X13" baking dish. Ladle 1/2 cup bechamel over the bottom of the dish. Lay several sheets of the cooked noodles, overlapping slightly, over the sauce. Spread a 1/4 of the remaining bechamel on the pasta. Top this with 1/2 of the bolognese and 1/4 cup of the Parmesan. Repeat these layers. On the top of the last layer of pasta, pour the remaining bechamel and the remaining Parmesan. Bake until bubbly and starting to brown, about 40 minutes.
Let the lasagne rest for about 25 minutes before cutting into squares and devouring. Yes, that's torturous, but this is going to be hot, and you don't want all your carefully prepared layers to go flying all over the place.
The whole process is time consuming, so it's true that for a weeknight, I probably wouldn't go to all this effort, but for a great Sunday supper or when company comes over, I have a feeling that I'll be going the distance.
It actually does get cold in Arizona. Many people don't realize that we have higher elevations (as a Washington State native, I just can't call them mountains, though) that host skiing and other delightful winter activities, and in the winter months, the temperatures up there get downright frigid.
But last week, it was cold all over the state, and I'm not exaggerating; the highs barely hovered in the low 40s, and at night, we dropped into the mid-20s. Signs that it was colder than usual were all around us:
Rose bushes were covered with sleeping bags.
Scarves were seen all over town.
Rarely-used heat seaters were toasting buns all over the Valley.
Bass Pro Shops and Cabela's were beset by panicked citizens clamoring over the last pair of thermal undies.
OK, maybe that last part wasn't real, but I kind of like to imagine people, shivering in their heaviest sweatshirt, clearing out the racks of long johns.
What I do know actually happened is that in Casa de Philistines, we were going to need soup. Lots of it. It would warm us up at dinner time, and the making of it would keep the kitchen nice and toasty as well. So Soup Week came at the most perfect time for us, and I reveled in the joy that was a Dutch oven on a hot burner.
I found the recipe for Arizona Mountain Soup while I was searching for an "Arizona style" soup online. I thought it might be fun to focus my Soup Week contribution on something local. Unfortunately, while a fairly standard recipe can be found all over the internet, I can't find any information as to why it's called Arizona Mountain Soup or how it originated.
I'm horribly disappointed.
I like to imagine that this is a "cowboy" or "wild west" version of minestrone, like some Italian immigrants who came to make their fortune in the west years back were inspired by the southwestern tastes and threw them into the campfire pot.
Yep, I know - I can spin quite a fanciful yarn, but I digress.
This soup beat away the chills easily. I decided to healthify it a touch and add some more fresh vegetables to the original recipe, since why just use onions when you can have meeruhpwamerepoimirepoix?
(OK, French-speaking people, how do you even get that spelling? I'm gonna have to go all phonetically logical German on y'all - Suppengrün - BOOM)
Most Arizona Mountain Soup recipes also call for dried beans that you soak before cooking. Y'all, I have a confession: I can NOT cook dried beans to save my life. Yes. Yes, I know. This should be the simplest thing. But I...just fail. So I used canned beans. And I'm OK with that. For now.
It was fantastic with a side of homemade cornbread, by the way.
Arizona Mountain Soup
2 cans pinto beans, drained and rinsed, OR 1 1/4 cups dried pinto beans
4 slices bacon, chopped*
1 (or 2) onions, chopped
2-3 cloves garlic, minced
3 carrots, chopped
3-4 ribs celery, chopped
1 can fire-roasted tomatoes
1 1/2 cup cooked brown rice
2 cups vegetable or chicken stock (since I don't eat chicken, I used homemade veggie stock)
2 tsp salt (or to taste)
1/2 tsp paprika (or to taste)
1/2 tsp pepper (or to taste)
1/4 tsp cayenne (if you like a little bite, or more, if you like more of a bite)
If using dried beans, soak overnight in 3 cups water. Without draining, simmer until the beans are tender (about 2 hours).
In a large Dutch oven, cook bacon until nearly crisp. Add onions, garlic, carrots, and celery and cook until the veggies are tender. Stir in tomatoes, rice, beans, and spices. Add in the stock and an additional 2 cups water (or more, should you need it - heck, I used a little bit half a bottle of wine that I had lying around). Bring to boiling and then simmer for about 1 hour, stirring occasionally. Season to taste before serving with hot cornbread (which, just as a reminder, MUST be made in a cast iron skillet).
*To make the bacon easier to cut, freeze slightly for a little bit before chopping to bits.
This is a soup that freezes really well, and I have a quart of it taking up some valuable real estate in the freezer, so even though the temperatures have gotten tolerable once again, I may have to haul it out this weekend after our "nature walk" with HRH.
Please take some time to check out the other amazing soup recipes we have going on this week; there is something for everyone, and I am somewhat sad that Arizona is already starting to leave soup season in the rearview mirror.
There you have it - creamy soups, broth soups, sick soups, cold soups, dinner soups, dessert soups, soups for every occasion and every palate.
Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go turn on the air conditioning so I can have an excuse to put up another batch of one of these amazing ladies' soups right now!
I saw the chiropractor a week ago.
I had never had an adjustment, but considering my shins, my knees, and my back were all killing me (oy), I figured that my body was more out of whack than that crooked man who lived in a crooked house with his crooked cat. Dr. Bennett could only help get me standing tall (and upright) again.
The session was fascinating.
She asked me a great deal of questions about my running, my posture, my job (regarding the fact that I sit at a computer all day), whether I pronate or supinate (I pronate) and what corrective measures I have or have not taken. She asked me about stretching and yoga. She asked about how I sleep with my apnea mask (I should sleep on my back, but I'm still a stomach sleeper).
Fun fact: a chiropractor practices chiropractic; the noun is spelled the same as the adjective.
Not surprisingly, I needed lots of adjusting - my lower back, my upper back, my ankles, my pelvis, and everywhere else were adjusted back into the right positions. It didn't hurt, and it sounded just like I was cracking all my knuckles at the same time.
After Dr. Bennett was finished, I felt great - looser, a little taller, and just... better.
Her recommendation was that I look at my gait during my next run and to take some epsom salt baths on evenings after I run to help reduce inflammation and improve recovery.
More relaxing baths? Not a problem.
She further recommended a series of gentle stretches that are more like yoga exercises, designed to stretch the entire fascial system. Way better than the traditional "stretch one muscle at a time" thing that we all did in high school track.
Mental note: before stretching after my next run, vacuum before stretching; there is dog fur EVERYWHERE.
Even though I felt great immediately after the session, I did have some soreness the next day, which is normal, considering I've been holding myself one - wrong - way, and now I'm back to holding myself properly. An epsom salt bath - the doctor ordered it, after all - felt soooooo good.
So on Saturday, once it warmed up (seriously; it's been freezing here in the Valley of the Sun), Zooey and I stepped off for a light weekend run to see how the shins - and the rest of my body - were faring.
My gait felt MUCH more natural. I know now that I'd been overcorrecting somehow, probably to try to keep the shin pain from becoming worse, which only made it...worse. I had no pain, and even though we took it really easy, I am excited to start running more miles each week now that I'm healed.
I have a follow-up appointment with Dr. Bennett this week, and then I'll look to incorporate monthly adjustments into my regular routine as a part of preventive maintenance.
Now, my husband is suspicious of chiropractors, to say the least. He seems to have them filed in the same category as snake oil salesmen. It's not that he thinks they can't help, but he sees going to the doctor - any doctor, really - as a means to a specific end. Get a sinus infection? Go get antibiotics. Break your ankle? Go get a cast. In his mind, doctors are supposed to cure whatever ails you. So he considers getting adjusted regularly something that is more of a scam than actual treatment.
However, I really don't see it that way. I sit all day, and sometimes I slouch. I don't always have the best posture, I wear high heels from time to time, and I don't sleep in a very proper position. I will likely need to be adjusted fairly regularly. Further, proper adjustment can keep me in better running form and better overall health, so I'm definitely a fan. In my mind, getting adjusted regularly, like taking vitamins and eating my greens, can be a way to keep Bad, Icky Things like the flu and injuries at bay.
Now, if only I could find a massage therapist who also took my insurance.
With an injury, I am even more acutely aware of the fact that I'm never going to pace the likes of Tika Gelana (2012 Olympics gold medal in the marathon).
And I'm OK with that. I just want to get back out there.
I've got two slow miles planned for tomorrow to test out the shins (as well as my back, which I tweaked the other day).
