I’ve never made a secret of the fact that I have one vice (okay, maybe two because I swear a lot) and that vice is coffee.  Not caffeine, necessarily, (although I hate decaf) because I don’t jones for tea or soda, but coffee, really good coffee. With fat-free half and half.  I’ll even have the full fat if that’s all there is.  Add a dash of artificial sweetener ( I go back and forth between yellow packet and half of a pink packet–is that another vice?) and I’m in heaven.

The flavor, the body, iced or hot—hot in the morning for sure–send me into a heavenly comfort.  Part of the pleasure is taste, part of it is feel.  That first sip in the morning is incomparable to any other sip of anything.  If you love coffee you know what I’m talking about.

Coffee and I started our love affair post-college.  I didn’t really like coffee until college and I did not love it until I worked in restaurants and had the good stuff.  However, the real source of my attachment to it was during the great depression.  (that is what I call my three year depression in my twenties)  When I was on the mend, I would lose steam in the afternoons and I could feel a heavy, iron curtain trying to claim my brain and pull me down into the depths of despair. Coffee was the only antidote. I can vividly remember my dear friend, Donna, recognizing the signs that I was fading one day ask me if I needed some coffee.  It was the sweetest thing because she never touched the stuff and she generally moved gingerly around me seemingly afraid to pay attention to the demon because she feared not being able to put it in its cage if it got out.  So by asking me if I wanted coffee, she was sweetly letting me know that she knew I was slipping and I knew to listen.

Once my life no longer depended on coffee, I still chose it as my morning and afternoon companion.  One in the morning, one in the 2pm arena.  Later than that, and I can’t sleep.  No jitters, no stomach aches—withdrawl headaches if I don’t have it–all OK.  When I’m in Europe, I can have three times my normal consumption and feel no ill effects.  (How do they DO that?) I’ve given it up for periods of time, but despite this line of thinking or that one that says it’s bad for you, now good for you, I choose to keep it.  At one point, I thought of writing a song about it to the tune of “I’m Flying” from Peter Pan.  Coffee is a good companion.  It brings meaning to my life.  I slow down and connect with its help. Care to join me for a cup?

I don’t know about your world or household, but this past Friday was one of the busiest Halloweens on record.  The level of scrutiny my three children now have for the accuracy and appropriateness of their costumes is exhausting.  It took days of effort to be sure everyone had the details of Ozzie Osbourne, a 1950′s Greaser girl (with mommy version to match!) and a Star Wars Storm Trooper (the only store-bought one–a bit easier) in place to satisfaction. The day itself was loaded with many more details in terms of two school costume parades, one Halloween concert, varied play dates and Trick or Treat dates as well as an adult gathering next door that I needed to concoct an appetizer for.  All this head-spinning activity led me to one, understandable and all-to-easy mistake.  I ate a piece of candy.

It was no ordinary candy–well it was by most standards–but for me it was the very rare, very delectable sin of a Twix bar—-just a mini, but oh, so good.  And it was said mini that began the descent down the slippery slope I have no right to pretend I was surprised to meet.  One candy lead to a second which in itself is not too bad but you know what’s next.  The carb addiction kicked in!  Bagels, pizza, pasta, chips, french fries and Ben and Jerry’s Mint Oreo Cookie ice cream followed over the course of the weekend.  Soooo good! So cruel.  Do you know the penance I will have to pay in the form of mileage?  I’ll have to run everyday this week and that is no longer physically possible for me…….

By this morning, I thought I had it under control, but I just ate fifteen crackers for their crunch factor in a semi-conscious carb daze.  It’s no use.  I have to detox starting now!  Green tea and vegetables for three days!  What is the meaning of all this?  (besides blaming my lack of self control on a carb addiction!)

None of it would have happened if we had just stuck with the old tradition of wearing masks to scare away the evil spirits on All Hallow’s Eve.  Who started this candy stuff anyway?  Probably an American ad man. If he’s still alive, he’d make a good running partner.  That’s about as fast as I feel I could go today.  Carb haze, please go away!

Wyatt and I have a ritual on Saturday mornings, and almost every night for at least 30 minutes.  We watch the Food Network!  If you’ve been reading this blog, you know Wyatt is on a very restricted diet.  I worry sometimes that watching show after show about food he can’t eat could be bad for his mental health. However, after asking him several times over the last few months, he was finally able to articulate it this morning.  He simply said:  ” I like food!  It’s OK if I can’t have it!”

I watch with him and I really enjoy it.  So why do I watch?  I like food and it’s OK if I can’t have it.  I try not to eat things Wyatt can’t eat (at least not in front of him) and I am deep into my annual struggle with my bastard cousin–my yo-yo’ing eight pounds.  (we are celebrating our fifth anniversary!)

Furthermore, I too was able to articulate more about my love of food shows today.  They make it look so easy and they NEVER have to clean up.  Things magically disappear from view.  It just struck me today that my true fascination with the Food Network is the absence of cleaning up–the absence of dirty pots, pans and dishes!  Forget any fantasies about food–it’s the cleanliness that calls me!  Maybe if I tell you that my husband and kids call me “The Sloppy Gourmet”, you’ll understand the significance of this discovery.  What freedom it represents!  Ahhh………

I am at Kripalu, a retreat center in Stockbridge, Massachusetts, leading a weekend seminar.  Although I am here ‘working’, I am in a retreat setting and what a difference it makes to my state of consciousness.  The rolling hills and lake front view, the acres and acres of space, the spiritual emblems and tinkly music all around—it’s enough to calm any body down to a more livable pace.

The biggest treat has been silent meals.  It’s something I’ve done before on retreat, but I did not anticipate how much I would love to have this again.  I had dinner in silence and breakfast and lunch today too.  Obviously, that means no one is talking.  But what it does for me (and I’m sure, others) is slow down the speed at which I eat.  There is a heightened awareness.  There is an exaggerated sense of tasting each morsel. I notice myself breathing and chewing instead of wolfing down the meal at an accelerated pace to get back to other business. 

Taking the time to choose what I am eating and savoring it also leads to eating less.  I had small portions on my plate and I was full.  I took my time.  I experienced it—I did not need MORE to keep the experience going. 

Meaning is a state of consciousness and silent meals raise that consciousness to the point that eating has meaning.  I felt the nourishment.  I felt the satisfaction. I felt the food as fuel instead of entertainment or a busy action.  I was grateful for it.  I felt connected to the earth-life that was feeding me.  I almost got ferklempt!  (OK, not really but I did enjoy the time in a way that felt almost overwhelming)

Funny enough, my favorite time of the day at home is dinner time with the whole family.  That is NOT a silent meal.  So, I’ll have to save these silent retreat-type meals for when I am an empty nester.  But here, on a break from the norm, I’ll bask in the presence of the almighty meal.  Amen.

We’ve been home from the hospital for three days and the most unexpected surprise is emerging.  Being that Wyatt has to eat in a new way and we have spent almost every spare moment of the weekend learning how to make Ketogenically balanced meals, a whole new dynamic has set in.  I can feel a metamorphosis of my own relationship to food.

At first, I was sad because Wyatt has to endure yet another inconvenience and another change that impedes his ability to be a carefree kid.  As his brother and sister reach in the fridge for whatever they want or ask for their usual treats at the town pool (cheese fries) or plop in front of the TV with popcorn or ice cream, he has to wait for his tiny portions of 4 to 1 ratio food.  (4 parts fat to 1 part protein or carb).  Sweets and treats are rare and mere-imitations at that.  I have been mourning along side him as we see freedom and pleasure taken from him at every turn.  It’s also been tough to try to get my other two children to realize what deprivation Wyatt is undertaking and learn how to be aware of that without causing their relationship to food to be unhealthy.  I don’t want food to be shrouded in guilt or shame or secrecy for them, either.

What is tough to describe is this inner shift I am feeling as I see clearly how the meaning of food is changing for me. Food for most of us is pleasure.  It feels good, it tastes good, it satisfies us.  Many of us are comforted by food or maybe we have a love/hate relationship with food if we struggle with finding a healthy weight or balance.  As an ex-anorexic and exercise bulimic (in my 20′s), I’ve already gone through changes in how I see and value food but this shift is very big.  What I am experiencing is the shift of understanding that food is meant to be sustenance and nothing more. 

In Wyatt’s case, food is also medicine.  His food is prescribed and has the dual purpose of feeding him to live and fueling his metabolism in a way that heals the brain.  For me, as I support him, cook for him and avoid flaunting my freedom of food choice if front of him, I can feel how I am starting to accept food as a basic staple instead of a reason to celebrate, self-medicate, punish myself or reward myself. 

What is also frighteningly up for grabs is the social aspects of food. Our world is very food-centric.  I am an American and an ethnic Jew (with an Italian side of the family) at that.  EVERYTHING is about food.  Every holiday, every gathering, every birth, death and hiccup is about food. My depression-era father always taught me to have more than enough in case!  How on earth am I going to feed my kid his Ketogenic niblets while the rest of the room is falling into a diabetic coma or a food-induced haze?  These thoughts give me a momentary panic attack.  We haven’t gotten there yet, but when we do, I should be well entrenched in my new understanding that food is for keeping our body going and that’s it!

It’s only three days, but I think the mourning and sadness about food may end sooner rather than later. If I’m lucky (on a completely selfish note), I hope this new reality allows for my yo-yo ten pounds to drop off for good!