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Peace, Love and Low Carb? Yes, please.

What I said in the newspaper last month:

 

I don’t know about you, but when a blogger wears a strip of bacon on her shirt — clarification: a picture of bacon — I’m going to be interested. When deliciously low-carb recipes follow, I’m bound to be infatuated.
Seattle-area blogger Kyndra Holley came to my attention not long after she began her blog, “Peace, Love and Low Carb.” You know how it goes: Someone commented on one of her recipes; I saw it, checked out her Facepook page and was immediately delighted.
Everything on there looked delicious and manageable in the few hours I devote to cooking every week. How rare is that?
In our current culture, just about anyone can be his or her own social media star.
Kyndra might seem an unlikely luminary, but with 30,000 Facebook followers, a blog receiving 150,000 individual views per month and a cookbook that has boiled over the rim of the usual number of sales from such self-published efforts, she looks to be firmly on the ladder going up.
This woman gets it, and “it” began when she and her husband took a long, hard look at themselves the day before Thanksgiving, 2011, Kyndra said.
“We both gained weight after our wedding. I always tell people we went through the ‘fat and happy’ stage.”
Although the couple had been actively dieting since that summer, her scale still registered 250 pounds; it was clear things weren’t working, Kyndra recalled. “We took pictures and when I looked at them, I just said to my husband, ‘Do I really look like this?’”
Part of the problem was believing that limiting her carbohydrate intake could be the single magic bullet, à la the Atkins Diet, she explained. “I thought I could eat bacon cheeseburgers dipped in ranch (dressing) all day, every day.”
It didn’t help matters that she worked as a manager in a great restaurant at the time, a position she recently left to focus on other goals.
Yet the experience she gained from years in food service has become invaluable, Kyndra would come to realize.
She started things off by taking her family’s favorite recipes and recreating them with health first and foremost in mind. That and taste, of course.
In time, she was posting dishes like “Mustard Blackened Chicken,” “Creamy Turkey Taco Soup” and “Sloppy Joe Stuffed Peppers,” most with step-by-step visual tutorials.
Kyndra had me, and my entire family, at “Caramelized Onion and Bacon Dip,” which she posted nearly a year ago. Everywhere I’ve taken this dish, people are happier to see the bowl in my hands than me. It’s a lovely mess of sauteed onions, bacon, cream and Parmesan cheeses and sour cream … producing basically a mouthful of, yep, love. And peace, in bacony bliss. But don’t be frightened, there are many less-decadent recipes, too.
She tries to avoid looking at other cookbooks, she said. “I don’t want something that’s not mine to creep in, so I do my best not to seek them.”
Working around professionally prepared food in the restaurants gave Kyndra the tools to adapt recipes and developed her eye for appealing dishes. As a sometime food-blog follower, I can attest to how important this is for readers.
There’s nothing like seeing a photograph of food that sounds delish, but is poorly presented — spills, plate rims not wiped off, similar colors too close together, the messy background of someone’s dinner table as dinner is in progress. I could go on.
Readers responded with enthusiasm, Kyndra recalled, some taking it so far as to steal her intellectual property and repost it as their own, down to her signature ingredients, “2 Tbs. Peace and Love.”
That has been difficult to take, she conceded. “My blog settings were not very strict. It was a learning curve. I saw places where people were using my photo and everything verbatim … that just feels like a punch in the face.”
And when she took a recipe off her blog because it’s included in her new cookbook? Boy howdy, the crazies came out of the crockpot. My words, not Kyndra’s.
Her skin grows thicker by the day, however, and Kyndra knows now that each negative reaction will be overbalanced by a thousand positive offerings of praise and motivation, she said. “I’ve learned a lot about the integrity of others.”
In the meantime, she is committed to counting carbs and calories, plus a rigorous exercise routine, which has aided her loss of nearly 60 pounds and multiple dress sizes.
There’s still work to be done on her 5-foot-10-inch frame, she said, but focus on strength and more has to be key.
Kyndra promotes what she preaches on her Facebook page, where she sometimes posts the contributed pictures and stories of others undertaking the same battle, cheering on their victories.
Now free of outside jobs, the writer is steaming ahead with marketing her cookbook. Her husband is completely supportive of her goal, she said.
“He seems too good to be true. … He never badgers me about not spending enough time with him, he knows I am building a future for us.”
To see more about Kyndra and her fabulous recipes, go to ubne.ws/11SRnGV.

No husbands were harmed…much…in the making of this post

Look, I overreacted. It happens.
Still, it was an egregious miscalculation on my husband’s part. He knows that now, having been schooled in a rather dramatic way.
Those of you who read my stuff know I have been low-carbing it for a couple of years. It’s a nutrition style I have found easy to adopt. However, finding a true treat can be challenging. There are some things that are marketed for low carb diets, but by and large, those are phoods.
As in, fake food. Like the “ice cream” bars that scream “3 NET CARBS” on the front but don’t back that up with the nutrition label on the other side. Plus those have an odd texture and taste that tells your tongue this, too, is a low-carb fairy tale.
Dark chocolate though? Surprisingly, the darker the chocolate, the lower the carb count. Hence, really good dark chocolate has become my go-to when I can no longer fool myself that a good mug of tea is like dessert.

Recently we stopped by our friends’ house on a child-free Friday night. Ann and Leo offered us glasses of excellent red wine from their own vineyard and gave us delectable morsels of chocolate heaven. Camo Man and I each had one, then Ann — too generous, always — bagged up two more to take home.
We agreed to hide the candy from the teens and enjoy it on a later day.
That later day was Wednesday. We had done a mid-week clean that was nearly painless thanks to the wonders of a new delight in my life. Less than 90 minutes after starting as a group, we were all done and Camo Man and I settled into the couch to catch up on some TV shows we love.
We had just congratulated ourselves on a fine job of coordinating the teen slaves and no drama for cleaning night. Perhaps our most successful yet.
“Oh!” I said. “Let’s have our chocolate now! Perfect!”
Camo Man’s face was inscrutable. He sat there, sort of like a rock. “C’mon, go get it. I can’t reach that high,” I urged.
“I can’t. I ate it.”
I knew he was teasing. He knows, knows, knows that chocolate is my second love. Well, third on a day the kids have all been angels. So he would never deny me that little tiny treat I can legally partake in.
He rose from the couch, a rusty crane firing up. Sloooooow. He walked into the kitchen like he was fighting off some kind of sedative. Lion tranquilizer maybe.
I followed, officially worried by now.
He looked in our hiding spot. Showed me. Empty.
Something inside me snapped.
I love this man so much. He is great fun, a wonderful father to my kids, a rock for me to lean on. He makes me laugh and he is not afraid to let me cry. He’s not afraid on my crazy days, either.
But Camo Man never saw the crazy that comes out when someone has eaten my chocolate. Not before Wednesday night.
I’m going to spare you the details, but I will say his T-shirt was soaked by the time I calmed down.
Because we’re talking about really good chocolate and a breach of trust.
We made up, of course we did. But Camo Man still owes me what he owes me. I anticipate quite the mother lode of yumminess coming my way. I’m licking my lips.

Camo Man wants you to know

We have bananas. “You tell them I bought fresh fruit,” he said as he went out the door to work.

Except that was 48 hours ago and now we don’t. Again. Three teens, one a banana addict, no further explanation necessary.

Remember this started at the beginning of the month, when I turned all grocery responsibility over to my husband after finding myself listing the supermarket as my home address.

It’s been a journey. I’ve ended up in the store more than I wanted to, but not alone at least. I’ve kept my hands in my pockets other than paying for some things I really needed … like decent red wine.

Mostly I’ve tagged along, content to answer every question of “Should I?”with “It’s up to you! You’re in charge this month!”

I might have snickered once or 18 times.

As well, I allowed the teens to purchase school lunches, which hasn’t happened in 100 years and which they have fully enjoyed. Normally I’m kind of a fiber-protein-veggie, home lunch or nothing kind of cop, but I knew Camo Man would need to take baby steps. I didn’t want to have to worry about children starving because there was no lunch makings.

In general, he’s done well. In truth, there are apples and oranges in the fruit bin. We have eggs and cheese and meat and tortillas. And lots of frozen and canned foods.

Milk has been a little touch and go, I have to say, and today the dogs got the last molecule of peanut butter. I told this to Camo Man, but he doesn’t care. “I’m done going to the store.”

I may have smirked behind his back and whispered, “I told you so.”

 

Yes, we have no bananas

Under the “fresh fruit” heading at our house, there are two Red Delicious in good shape, one shrively Fuji apple and maybe one naval orange. The veggie bin has one cucumber and two onions. Oh, and one baking potato.
That’s it. There are none of the bananas, satsuma oranges, tomatoes, broccoli, cauliflower or anything else usually on hand to drop down the enormous hole known as ‘teen hunger.”
This is my fault.
Camo Man and I have a formula for groceries, neatly dividing an agreed-upon amount by the numbers represented pre-marriage. He arrived at my house as a party of two, I counted as three, so that’s how we split the bill. In theory.
But that is just one side of the grocery experience we’re going through. And it’s the easy side.
Last month I was at the grocery store for the, I am not kidding, 22nd time. Not that Camo Man won’t go…he really seems to enjoy helping me feed our family. Or sneaking stuff into the cart, you choose.
Anyway, I end up being the one at the store because I run pantry inventory in my head every day, think ahead to what’s on hand for meals and what’s needed. I really do care about providing our family with healthy and fresh food and I thrive on finding the best deal.
But not in February. Something snapped on that 22nd stroll down the dairy aisle, where I was picking up the millionth gallon of milk. I came home and announced I would hand over my share of the grocery budget to Camo Man and he could do the shopping and planning for a month.
HA HA HA, he said, warning me he would buy pasta and ramen like there was no tomorrow. And bologna, ice cream, dinners at McDonalds, Pop Tarts. Ketchup with high fructose corn syrup. Soda in styrofoam cups from the corner market.  ALL the toxins he could think of came tumbling out of his mouth in one sentence.
And I believed my husband. This is how he ate – and fed Hunter Boy – before. While he has celebrated the results of a much healthier eating habits, the stomach wants what the stomach wants.
It gave me pause … for less than five seconds. I knew my kids could survive 30 days of his menus. They’ll go through withdrawal later, sure, but they’ve seen worse.
We’re on Day 6 of the new regime. The last shopping I did to shore up the supply of “fresh” is wearing thin. The teens rooted through the panty this morning for canned fruit. “Pineapple, pineapple, pineapple. And pineapple,” I heard Miss Tall and Blond say, before she unearthed a can of mandarin oranges.
I called the mister on the way to work to report shortages. I’ll keep you looped in on how things go in Old Mother Hubbard’s cupboard.

It was just lovely

Thank you to those who have inquired. Thanksgiving turned out to be very relaxing and enjoyable, and I am as astonished as those who know my holiday history.

Our troupe of five arrived at Camo Mom’s house bearing side dishes and hungry tummies. Once we got in the door I hugged a few family members, then looked out a small sea … maybe a pond … of new faces. Squaring my shoulders, I adopted my reporter persona and did a quick tour of the great room, shaking hands, smiling just so and moving on, trying to memorize names in order to later win points.

My teen daughters emerged from the Honda already — don’t judge — playing their electronic games. In the house, they seamlessly blended with other kids playing their electronic games. I know they all spoke, but mostly they imitated some of the adults who were strengthening their own relationships with their tablet or iPhones.

In other words, they all looked related. They acted as such within minutes.

gathered together …

My lady in-laws cooked and orchestrated the placement of food in the new kitchen, while I hovered around the edges, unsure of what to do once I had stuck serving spoons in my own offerings. My men-in-law did as predicted, sitting side by side on the comfy sectional and discussing manly things.

Camo Man was in his element. He had his sisters and their husbands, one son and his family, nieces and nephews and their assorted offspring, plus his mom and dad.

I watched him closely. As of now, I have no childhood pictures of my husband, so I can only try to imagine him as a boy. But seeing him fully relax into his family brought me closer to knowing. My husband laughed and joked and ate and talked to kids and ate some more. His face creased a hundred times with a smile or chuckle, not a worry on the menu for the day.

Camo Man, however, did not forget about me. He knows I can get overwhelmed around folks I don’t know well, that my confident facade easily crumbles. We had set up a signal system before arriving and he did the eye-to-eye checking in … can you see why I love him so?

But I was fine. Dandy. Lovely. Calm. I had delicious food on my plate and great company. I had no real responsibilities and my kids were not embarrassing me or their dad, so I was totally chill. I was even happy, which has never been the case at my own Thanksgivings — my obsessive-compulsive disorder kicks in so fiercely that I start lining up place settings with a ruler and wiping every dot of food off the counter the second it lands.

It’s hard to be around that much bizarre.

Fortunately, no one had to get a helping of that dish of crazy this time. To my new family I say, you’re welcome and thank you. You may not realize what a gift you gave me — aside from Camo Man, of course — but a delicious-in-every-sense Thanksgiving is huge.