Meatballs, Wherefore Art Thou?

It's interesting how for many people, their childhood memories centre around food. Whether they were special event meals, holiday fare, or memorable foods mom or grandma cooked. I too have fond childhood memories of a particular mealtime.  

When I was about seven years old we moved from a shack in northern Ontario, to a series of rooms and flats in the big city. Both my parents worked. Back then, eating lunch at school was not a thing. You went somewhere, anywhere. Sometimes, as a treat I was allowed to go to Morris' Grocery Store on the corner of Clinton Street. I'd ask for a bun and he'd put the 5 cents "on the bill", to be paid by my parents later. Once a month or so, mom and dad would spring for a lunch counter meal near my school and I'd get fish and chips wrapped in newspaper. Even now, I can almost smell the wonderful intermingled aroma of fish, chips, and newsprint. I was a young child, but fears for safety did not seem to be an issue back then. 

My dad often worked shifts, so generally, I was able to come home for lunch. He usually prepared a Kraft singles cheese sandwich, or Campbell's soup (mushroom, chicken noodle or tomato). From time to time there was vegetable soup, but I hated those weird little white and orange cubes floating in what looked like red grease. The peas were identifiable, nothing else was. 

It was very special being able to spend even a short time alone with dad each day. As strange as it sounds, we occasionally watched soap operas (they were 15 min. episodes back then) or cartoons. Other times, we assembled something with Minibrix or grew sea monkeys on the kitchen table. There was not much time, but we made the best of it.

On very rare occasions, dad had a day off and made one of our all time favourite foods...rice and canned Puritan meatballs. This particular meal took a little longer to prepare and was also a go-to camping lunch. I recall that the cans were a bit larger back then, nonetheless, dad and I polished one off by ourselves. On our camping trips, there was magically enough for all three of us to eat. It may have had something to do with my mom's insistence on vegetables and the addition of a very delicious salad to complement the meal.  

I had totally forgotten about rice and meatballs until my stepmom asked about them some months prior to dad's death. She wondered why he kept talking about rice and meatballs and why, although her homemade meatballs were fantastic, dad kept insisting they weren't the same. 

"The same as what?" she would ask.

I explained about the canned meatballs as best I could.

During his final months, we brought dad to our house from time to time. I found, and sometimes made him rice and canned meatballs. His face lit up. I'm not certain whether this processed food was really that delicious to him, or whether it just triggered some wonderful memories of years gone by.

I had forgotten about canned meatballs until I spotted a familiar looking tin with a not so familiar logo at our local Giant Tiger. Cordon Bleu? Was my memory that poor? Despite the exorbitant price, nostalgia made me want to pick up a can and try them. I did, and the taste was as fantastic as I had remembered. (Of course, these would not be to everyone's taste. I do hear some refrains of "yuck" as people are reading this). My friend Google told me that the Puritan company had been bought out at some point. This explained the only slightly different looking label.

I decided to purchase another can to keep on hand for myself for use when hubby would insist on eating some of his own favourite Fear Factor foods. I zipped over to GT and noticed that there were about a dozen cans on their sell-off shelf. Although I wondered why, I wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. Then, not wanting to be greedy, I picked up only two of the 1950's priced delicacies. Mistake. 

Imagine my surprise and dismay, when weeks later and ready to replenish my pantry stock, I couldn't find a single meatball tin at any store. I texted a photo to my friend asking her to watch for these meatballs. Within the hour, she sent me a picture which her niece had messaged...same can, same request. Wow, a kindred meatball spirit! She too had searched everywhere. Were they discontinued? Were they too expensive that people didn't buy them? Suddenly, I felt a huge loss.

The good news is that we have since located the meatballs at Walmart. The price is slightly lower than it had been. Possibly the newer cans have shrunk like so many                                    other products nowadays. 

Alas, canned meatballs live on!  Yayyy... 

But wait. Do I detect Puritan products on the same shelf?

Anyone addicted to Puritan corned beef hash in a can?

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*** NOTE - Just to be clear, although delicious and convenient, these meatballs are far from a good food option. I am not promoting them. They contain a fair bit of fat and a ridiculous amount of sodium.

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Fatigue, Flab, Farha and Fun

The problem with being old and bloggng is that it's hard to remember what you've written in previous years, months and sometimes even what you've written in previous days. I've probably mentioned one of my favourite Dr. Seuss quotes before.

                         “When you're in a slump,you're not in for much fun.
                                    Un-slumping yourself is not easily done.”

Every once in awhile I am guilty of a "playing the world's smallest violin" moment. Sometimes, it lasts longer than a moment, more like a week or two. It's usually when something doesn't go quite as I had imagined, when I'm extra tired, when I worry about my children or someone's health, when I don't hear from friends, when the weather is particularly depressing, when the weigh scales are being unfair OR when I have to clean toilets. 

Lately, I had been obsessing over several of the above things, and I had been feeling particularly fatigued. I was in a slump and had difficulty pulling myself out.

For example, despite going to a gym for a month and walking daily, I gained seven pounds (insert violin playing here). Oh yes, I've heard the ridiculous, "muscle weighs more than fat" argument. The truth is, muscle is more compact than fat. Muscle burns more calories. But whether it's a pound of fat, a pound of muscle, a pound of feathers or a pound of kumquats, it's still a pound.

Then, at the exact same gym, I learned about a dynamic woman that would be coming to talk on the eve of October 30th. She was Wendy Farha, a singer, comedienne, motivational speaker, cancer survivor, who suffers from depression. Wow! And I thought I had problems. I purchased a ticket. It was the final week of breast cancer awareness month. Proceeds for this event were being donated to the local hospital. Perfect!

Wendy arrived, began to speak and we all started laughing. Her antics, songs, stories and jokes were so much fun that everyone had a wonderful time. Not only did she give us a lot to think about, she made us all feel thankful for what we have. She was truly inspirational.

When I took this photo, Wendy said, "Wait, you didn't get my best side". She was right. The photo doesn't begin to do her justice. She is truly a remarkable person.

I feel better now. Things are looking up. I have caught up on rest. My kids are fine. I have visited with some friends. I have lost some weight. Everyone is currently healthy. The weather isn't bad. So, can toilet cleaning be far behind?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lmVouyb-I38

Why Weight? Confessions of a Career Dieter

I know this might come as a huge shock to all three of my loyal readers, but I am overweight. I have a fat problem. I'm probably not described as morbidly obese, but then I'm afraid to check a medical dictionary for a specific definition of that term. I don't have hundreds of pounds to lose, however, I am considerably beyond an acceptable weight for my ever shrinking height. I am also well over an acceptable weight for my ever shrinking wardrobe.  
                                                      

With age, my shape has become unusual if not unbalanced. I now look much more like SpongeBob Square Pants with the skinny legs eminating from a rectangular upper body. On the bright side, I have been noting that this physique is common to about a third of women my age.                                                  
                          
I always tell myself that I'm in good company when it comes to my weight. After all, Oprah is hefty, and has been for most of her tv life.  Despite her private pain and public struggles with weight, despite having money, having chefs and trainers, she's still not a small woman.

 I don't blame anyone for my "fluffiness". There were no magazines with skinny models or tv shows with anorexic actors that caused me to have body image problems. I think arguments to that effect are excuses at best. In fact, too many people use excuses for their shortcomings...."I don't have time, my kids... my job...my husband, I'm too tired... too stressed...." and so on and so on.

On the other hand, some peoples' struggles, with weight or whatever the issues, might be traced back to childhood. I certainly remember being called "fat" by my peers. Strange though as I look at photos from my youth, I realize that I not only looked absolutely normal but I was even bordering on slim. I think that there must have been different reasons why I was sometimes called names. Not only did my classmates have their own insecurities, but also, now that I'm slightly more mature, I have come to understand that they were obviously jealous. Besides having the splendid name of a saint, I always sported the most lovely pair of laced up Buster Brown shoes to accessorize my pretty pink party dress. Envy, I see it now. That's all it was.

My leanest years were in my twenties when I lived on the 10th floor of an apartment building which, because of an unfortunate union dispute, had no elevator. I was fit, and the stairs were a breeze, even on laundry day. I owned no car, walked everywhere and played squash with my friends. After awhile, a car and an elevator arrived on the scene, parties increased, physical activities slowed down, and weight began to creep up, one draft beer, one chicken wing at a time.

I remember my first diet clearly. I wrote down my consumption each day, limited myself to 500 calories and became unbearable, obnoxious, but nonetheless thin. Oh, and those 500 calories usually included several cups of black tea which I counted at 35 calories a piece. Exaggeration couldn't hurt could it? It did. An unrealistic lifestyle and  the shock of being called "phat" while sporting a silver bikini led to regaining some of the weight. I was not yet ready to see myself as others saw me.

My next adventure was with a now defunct diet club. I don't remember much about it except that I ate a lot of cottage cheese on toast and created pancakes out of sliced and blenderized bread. Once again, my weight dropped. It was amazing. I didn't even have to cut my toenails, get a haircut or shave my legs to ensure a weekly loss. It was all so easy in my younger years.

Then I had children. One can only use them as an excuse for so long. I have surpassed the 20 year baby fat limit.

And so, over the years, I tried various diets. I never did anything drastic, expensive or fad-like. I avoided the urine injections and resisted the temptation to swallow a tapeworm. No preportioned dinners were delivered to my home and I did not consume small jars of baby food. I confess that I did try the cabbage soup diet and survived for about two days.

For awhile, I gave up dieting using the argument of balance in the universe as my defence. There's only so much fat in the world and every time one person takes it off, another puts it on. I was convinced I was sparing someone the terrible fate of weight gain through my own martyrdom. After sitting on the sofa, eating popcorn and watching a few episodes of "The Biggest Loser", I once again became realistic about how weight gain actually happens.

I've lost weight and I've gained it back. It's a vicious cycle. I dieted without concern for my health. Most of the time, I just wanted to look better...vanity. For some, that's a motivator. As I aged, it became less and less so.

Some of my best memories and most fun times were spent when a couple of my neighbours and I attended  a diet group together. We would encourage each other and go for walks in the evenings. It was relaxing, good for us and we had lots of laughs.

After moving away from my supportive neighbours, I went to a new meeting where I attempted to count points. I know this works successfully for many people. For me, it was not only costly but complex. Since I usually got up quite early in the mornings, I couldn't figure out how to get past noon without running out of points. One choice was to go to bed at 6 p.m. just to stay on track....not great for the social life.

So now, what am I to do? I have attended a non profit weight loss support group in my town for awhile. I lost some weight by monitoring my intake and exercising each day, changing my lifestyle, the only way. At least I was a healthy overweight person. Then I got ill and gained weight.

I suppose I am writing this out of my current state of fat frustration. My metabolism has never been great and now it's defunct, as is my motivation. My knees hurt and my breathing is suffering.

At my age it is necessary to reduce calories, eat thoughtfully and increase metabolism to maintain ultimate health. My "Bucket List" is too long to give up now.                                                      
                           

My Wii Mii (before)

So like the alcoholic who confesses in front of an audience of his/her peers...I need to say that "I am Hilde and my caloric intake is higher than what I burn off ." I am hereby making a public pledge to get back to controlling my portions, eating healthfully and exercising. This is no longer for the sake of vanity, but for the sake of my health. I shall begin today and "this will be the first day of a lifestyle change that will last for the rest of my life".                                     


My Wii Mii (after)...The upper arms seem doomed forever!