I keep coming across these interesting sneakers that claim to turn the simple act of walking into a total lower body workout.  I’m absolutely fascinated by this.  I sort of pride myself on not being easily sucked in by advertising claims (Lee would dispute this, but this is my blog, so we’re going with my image of me).

Anyway, as skeptical as I generally am of hot new trends, these shoes totally intrigue me. There are several brands, but they all seem to work on pretty much the same premise:  the thick, curved soles of the shoes are constructed in such a way that when you wear them, you’re walking on a slightly unstable surface.  Theoretically, this has all kinds of muscular/skeletal benefits.

I love the idea of toning my backside without spending any extra time in the weight room.  I’d love to burn more calories just standing around.  It all sounds too good to be true.

And that right there–it sounds to good to be true–is just about right, I think.  This article, which I came across several weeks ago, reminded me:  the only way to get the benefits of exercise is to, you know–exercise.  I guess I’ll stick with plain old running . . .

I have come, now that I have achieved *cough* maturity, to understand and appreciate tapenade.  I didn’t like olives at all when I was growing up, or even after I was grown.  It’s only been in the last 4 or 5 years that I’ve started finding them delicious and interesting and addictive.  I think it started with some tiny little Arbequina olives that I tasted in a Spanish restaurant, then some warm, citrusy Kalamatas that showed up at a sort of pseudo-Spanish meal . . . and I’ve been hooked ever since.  I now hang out at the olive bars in various grocery stores, and can tell you which markets carry which varieties.  I also know that no one around here has those Arbequinas, the ones that first converted me; but I’m not giving up the search.

In the interim, I’ve fallen hard for tapenade, that tangy, salty, earthy condiment that hails from Provence.  On a sandwich, a wrap, folded into steaming pasta, smeared on a sweet tomato, or dolloped into a bowl of soup . . . it’s totally addictive.   My absolute favorite summer lunch is a whole wheat tortilla, smeared with goat cheese and tapenade, covered with juicy ripe tomato slices (preferably something sweet, like a German Johnson), and rolled up.  So I have to keep a small stash of tapenade in the fridge at all times.  I usually get it from the Whole Foods in Raleigh, from their olive bar, but that requires driving right past the Whole Foods by my house, which only has it in jars, and that makes me feel stupid and wasteful.

So last weekend, I finally decided to figure out how to make the stuff myself.

It couldn’t be simpler.  I’m still kicking myself for not trying it sooner.  Not only is it stupidly easy to make–it’s stupidly easy to make just enough for lunch.  Seriously–if you like olives at all, you have to try this.

Tapenade
makes enough for my lunch; your mileage may vary

8 fat, juicy Kalamata olives, pitted (The pitted part is really, really important.  I can’t emphasize that enough.)
1 teaspoon capers, drained
a generous drizzle of stoneground mustard

Put all three ingredients into your (washable!) spice grinder.  Whizz until it reaches an unctuous, paste-like consistency.  Smear it on your sandwich.  Be immensely proud of yourself.

Note:  do be sure those olives are pitted.  All of them.  I can tell you from experience that while olive pits will indeed get fairly well crushed by the spice grinder, they will impart a distinctly gritty, unpleasant texture to your tapenade.  And then there will be wailing and gnashing of teeth (and, if you are stubborn like me, many hours of picking said grit out of your teeth, because you were dumb enough to eat the stuff anyway).  Much simpler to label your olives carefully.

This article in today’s New York Times describes the overhaul of the physical fitness training program for new military recruits.  According to the article, kids joining the military today are more overweight and unfit than ever before, so the traditional elements of basic training are having to be redesigned to get them into combat-ready condition.

It’s a thought-provoking read, especially when you think about countries that require military service–I wonder if those kids are in that much better shape than ours?

It really does make you wonder what we’re doing wrong.  Don’t you have an image in your head of basic training–drill sergeants and group runs and obstacle courses?  Don’t you assume it’s the hot young tough-stuff studs who sign up for that?  If they’re overweight and out of shape, at 18 or 19 or 20 years old, what will become of us, as a nation?

Well, I’ve taken the plunge–I’m back in marathon-training-mode.  Last time I ran a marathon was in 2005; I was 38 then.  Now I’m 43.  That doesn’t sound like a huge difference, but it sure feels different–I’m a lot creakier than I used to be.  It’s not the hardest thing in the world, though.  Really, anyone can run a marathon.  Those folks who say their marathon was harder than giving birth?  They must’ve had really, really good drugs when they were in labor.

The training plan I’m using is in the book Run Less, Run Faster, by the folks at the Furman Institute of Running and Scientific Training.  They are, in my opinion, geniuses.  Their plans WORK.  They work especially well for those of us who are getting a little older and need to pay attention to things like recovery.  That 2005 marathon?  The FIRST training plan helped me shave more than 30 minutes off my finish time.  It’s hard, but it works.

The plan covers 16 weeks of training; this is officially week two.  On tap for tomorrow:  a 15 miler.

The race is on December 11th, in Kiawah, SC.  Lee is going to do it, too, but he’s going to walk the 26.2 miles.  Yes, you read that right, and yes, that’s going to take him all day.  With any luck, I’ll be able to finish, shower, eat, and get back out on the course to cheer him to the finish.

Our race choice–Kiawah–is no accident.  Kiawah is an island, and it’s flat.  I’m all about flat.  The fact that the race is in December is a factor, as well; I don’t love running in the heat.  We’re only a few days from hitting the record here in NC for the hottest summer on record, and let me tell you–getting in decent enough shape to start this training plan has been a muggy, hot, sweaty nightmare.

Besides, the hotel at Kiawah is beautiful, with squishy-soft beds, and a fabulous restaurant.  Isn’t that what everyone looks for in a marathon?

At the risk of losing all my locavore credibility, let me just say–Hatch chiles are here!  Yippee!

I don’t know what kind of magic is in the air/soil/water in Hatch, New Mexico, but they grow some mighty fine chiles.  Some are mild, some are hot, but they have this distinctive flavor, especially when roasted, that is completely addictive.  I finished up my last-year’s stash several months ago, and I’ve been having some serious cravings.  Finally–relief!

I buy them in bulk during the brief (usually about 2 weeks) time that I can get them around here, roast them on the grill (till they’re nice and charred), pick off the skins, and freeze them whole.  Then I can have a little hit of Hatch-y goodness anytime I want.

Usually scrambled with 2 eggs, on a corn tortilla, and topped with a sprinkle of monterey jack.

That, my friends, is the lunch of happiness.

Check your local Whole Foods, but do it soon–they won’t last long.  If you don’t live near a Whole Foods, you have my deepest sympathy.  Perhaps you should consider moving . . .

(After they’re peeled, lay them out on a parchment-lined baking sheet, not touching each other, and put the sheet in the freezer.  When they’re frozen solid, peel them off the parchment and put in a large ziploc.  They’ll keep months that way–or until you eat them all.)

Back when I first started this blog–back in the dark ages (y’know–last year)–I wrote a post commemorating my love for my kitchen scale.  I still have an undying passion for my kitchen scale, but that one that I wrote about before?  Well, I’m sad to say we had to put it out to pasture.  Its poor little buttons were cracking and peeling and sluggish.  It just couldn’t stand up to the daily rigors of life in my kitchen.

So, fickle strumpet that I am, I REPLACED it.  Adding insult to injury, I even got a fancy new model with more bells and whistles.  This is my new lovely.

I love that the weighing surface is larger–big enough to hold a mixing bowl, or a handful of spinach linguine, without bits hanging over the edge (I worry that those bits aren’t getting weighed accurately; these are the things that worry me).  I love that I don’t have to mash the tare button so hard my finger hurts in order to get the thing to reset.  I love that it will translate volume for me.*

But mostly, I love that it measures down to the gram.  8 grams of yeast? 13 grams of salt?  267 grams of sugar? No problem.

We’ve had the thing for a couple of months now, and I still giggle every time I measure out some odd quantity like that.

You know how your third grade teacher insisted you had to know how to estimate?  Guess what: she was wrong!

Accuracy is good.

*The volume function is cool.  Say you need 3/4 cup of sugar.  You get the code for sugar (the list of codes comes with the instructions, on a handy laminated card), put that code into the machine, and pour until the screen indicates that you’ve reached 3/4 cup.  My days of jotting down weight translations in the margins of all my recipes are over!

Remember the single-serving of blueberry bread pudding I made a couple of weeks ago?  Ever since then, I’ve been completely smitten with the idea of being able to make a bowl of bread pudding, on a moment’s notice, and have it ALL TO MYSELF.

Then yesterday, it finally hit me:  I can make Nutella bread pudding!  For ME!  I’ve seen Nutella bread pudding recipes floating around the blogosphere, but I’ve  never been willing to commit to a whole panful.  It just seemed so decadent.  And . . . and . . . what if we don’t like it?  (Okay, I know that’s not a realistic possibility.  Never mind.)

Anyway, yesterday I baked the bread (‘cuz, yanno, that’s how I roll–you are welcome to buy yours at a store, if you prefer).  Today I cut off a slice, soaked it in a custard that I had spiked with a tablespoon of Nutella, and nuked it.

Oh. My.

Then my rusty old mental wheels started turning.  Wait–I could put in chocolate chips.  Or caramel.  Or almond paste.  Oooh–sub out the half-and-half with coconut milk.  I know–a fluffer-nutter sandwich!  Or . . . a thick layer of raspberry jam.  Mmm.

Then the savory ideas started trickling in:  Shredded gruyere.  Sauteed mushrooms.  Artichoke hearts.  Goat cheese and a shower of olives.  Tapenade.  Caramelized onions.  Crumbled bacon and a handful of corn kernels (wait–did I really just say that?  BACON??  I can’t remember the last time I had bacon in the house.  Clearly, my fantasies are getting out of hand).

So I cut off another slice of bread, and made another pudding.  This one had the plain custard, with little chunks of milk chocolate (feves, not chips, because I think they melt better) scattered throughout.  After I nuked it, I sprinkled a little sugar on top and ran it under the broiler.

Lee loved it.

Now I’m thinking about coconut again.  Maybe I could spread caramel on the bread, and use coconut milk in the custard.  Coconut caramel bread pudding.  Come on, admit it:  you know you want some.

(Thanks to the always-reliable King Arthur Flour for the original recipe; my adaptation is available at the link above.)

Today is Day 10 of Delaney’s 8th grade year.  Thus far, she has missed 1.5 days.  I do hope this isn’t a trend . . .

She came down with a nasty cold at the end of last week, and I had to pick her up at noon on Friday.  She spent the weekend, plus Monday, holed up in her room, missing (in addition to the day and a half of school) the first three practices of her fall softball team.  The only reason she went to school this morning was her determination NOT to miss today’s field trip.

She has a history of missing a lot of school.  She’s my “sickly” child–if there’s a virus floating around out there, she’s going to pick it up.  She thinks I’m sort of a harpy because I’m always on her case about washing her hands and going to bed earlier and all that jazz.  It’s purely selfish on my part–because it Drives. Me. Crazy. to have a kid home from school.

I have a theory–based purely on anecdotal evidence, mind you–that being overweight suppresses the immune system.  Bottom line:  I think people who weigh more than they should get sick more often than people with a healthy weight.  I don’t know why; I can’t even speculate about the biology behind it, but it’s what I’ve observed, both from years of living with Delaney, and from paying attention to the world around me.

I think our bodies have a fairly narrow range within which they function optimally–go below minimum weight, or above the maximum, and you screw up the balance, and things stop working properly.

A quick (and entirely unscientific) Google search pops up a bunch of headlines that confirm my theory.  I didn’t bother reading the articles, mainly because they’re sort of irrelevant.  Wanting to improve your ability to fight off head colds is sort of a dumb reason to lose weight, given all the other risks of obesity, but if that’s what motivates someone to get off the couch and get in shape, that’s great.  I’m not above pointing out to my daughter, when she’s miserable and bored out of her mind on day three of the illness-of-the-moment, that a fit, healthy body catches fewer colds.

Toby has been scheming and plotting all summer, trying to figure out how to get himself a new bicycle.  He has a mountain bike, but he really, really wants a sleek, speedy road bike.  His big idea of the moment is to become a pro cyclist.  We know, from hard experience, that his big-idea-of-the-moment might be something completely different tomorrow, so we were hesitant to jump right into this hot new passion right at the start.  You never know whether the flame will burn slow and steady, or whether it will blaze bright, then sputter out.

So, between selling an old bike, working, and an advance from the Bank of Dad (to be worked off doing some tech projects for Lee–perfect fit), he finally got his new bike last week.

What did he want to do on said bike?

Hammer up steep hills.  Specifically, he wanted to go ride up all the mean, nasty, quad-burning hills he’s listened to me whine about for most of his life.  Those of you who know me in real life know that on and off over the last ten years or so (specifically, since Lee’s heart attack), I’ve done some triathlons (including one Ironman), as well as some mildly insane ultra-distance cycling.  Some of my cycling adventures (not all, but some) are chronicled here, on my old (now defunct) blog.

So he knows that there are a few hills around here that inhabit a mythological place in my head.  And in his 16 year-old, testosterone-addled mind, that means one thing:  he needs to go show me how it’s done.  Yesterday afternoon, I drove him and his bike (because, of course, it was too far to actually ride the bike to the hill) out into the country, and I pulled off on the side of the road and waited.

I watched as he pedaled away from me.  He’s 7 or 8 inches taller than I am, with an Adam’s apple, hairy legs, and wide shoulders, but . . . that was my baby on that bicycle.  A car whizzed past, and I clutched my steering wheel, forcing myself to sit still, and not run screaming after him to get back in the car, right that instant.  He kept pedaling, going slower and slower, grinding up the hill.  I leap-frogged past him, and pulled over further down the road, so I could keep an eye on him.

I watched as he disappeared around a curve, and thought about all the days I’ve spent cycling on these roads, all by myself.  I know I never felt quite as vulnerable as he looks.  I’ve always known cycling was a relatively dangerous hobby (that’s part of the reason I gave up the crazy long-distance stuff), but it wasn’t until I saw my child, alone, unprotected, wobbling a little as a car blew by, that I realized just how scary it really is.

He did fine–he made it up the hill, then turned around and went back down.  When I picked him up at the bottom, he was euphoric, having gotten up to 40 mph on the descent.  Yes, 40.

Honestly?  This makes that driver’s license feel safe . . .

If you love pickles, but don’t love the crazy amounts of sodium you get in commercial pickles, try these.

Or if you just have an abundance of cucumbers and you don’t know what else to do with them–these will take care of a couple of pounds.

They’re not the long-storage kind, requiring a heavy pot of boiling water, or a giant supply of jars, or all afternoon in the afternoon.  The sum total of your energy/time input is whatever it takes you to peel and slice the cucumbers.

I got the recipe in a cooking class I took years ago, from a local woman, Sheri Castle, who is really sort of my idol in the kitchen.  She can put together a meal that will knock your socks off, on a stage, all the while making the audience laugh–and learn–and she can do it without notes.  I’ve made only 3 small changes to Sheri’s recipe:  I used my own pickling spice, I used 1/2 of a red onion (because it’s what I had), and I boiled the brine in the microwave, instead of on the stove top (because I was on a kitchen binge, and all my saucepans were dirty).

Lee will be happy–he’s the pickle guy.

2 pounds small cucumbers, trimmed, peeled, and sliced
1 to 2 bunches spring onions, peeled and sliced into rings
12 ounces of vinegar (cider, white, rice, or seasoned rice–for the seasoned, cut the amount of sugar in half)
1/4 cup sugar
2 t. mixed pickling spices (optional)
1 t. salt
1/2 t. ground black pepper

Place the cucumbers and onions in a glass bowl or jar
Bring the rest of the ingredients to a boil, and cook, stirring, until the sugar dissolves.  Pour the hot vinegar mixture over the cucumbers and onions.
Let sit for at least 15 minutes for the flavors to blend and develop.
Eat at once, or refrigerate until chilled.

Storage note:  You can store the cucumbers and onions in the fridge for several days.  However, the brine keeps for weeks, so you can continue to add fresh cucumbers and onions to the same brine.