Neen's Notes

On our way back from Prague last summer, Joe and I had a layover in the Frankfurt airport. It wasn’t very long, and knew we’d have to board pretty quickly after going through customs. As we stood in the lengthy line to board the plane, a smell caught my nose.

There are a few foods that I can sniff out like a bloodhound. One of them is quite possibly the only food I won’t pass up (if it’s fresh!): Soft pretzels. Yes, we all know by now that the carbo-queen loves her bread, but pretzels are special. Their taut, thin outer crust, mahogany brown color, coarse bits of salt, slight malty flavor, and soft pillow-y middle make them a special kind of snack. And of course, warm ones are best. Just about every pretzel I ate while we toured Berlin (and it was probably a two digit number) met these criteria. All that had to happen was for me to see a sign that read ‘laugenbrezel’ and Joe nearly lost me on the street as I followed my moth-like trance toward pretzel glory.

So when I saw a lone man in a kiosk flipping ropes of dough, my eyes widened and Joe got a worried look on his face. Inwardly whimpering that I might never have such delicious and perfect pretzels again…well…

“I’ll be right back.”

The line was maybe 3 or 4 people long, and unlike American mall pretzel vendors there is only one “flavor” to choose. It moved swiftly, but I could see Joe worriedly moving toward the front of the boarding queue. Three hot soft pretzels in a paper bag later, I sprinted through the airport a la the family from “Home Alone,” and onto the plane for the final leg of our trip home.

But as delicious foods are, they were gone all too soon. Needless to say, I declined dinner on the flight.

Every time since that I found myself in a bakery, my eyes scanned longingly for that characteristic shape. I won’t say that I got snobby about it, but I was honestly disappointed most times that I found them around here. Either they were simply bread rolled into a pretzel shape, or heavily glazed in butter, or had a funny aftertaste, or were sadly stale and dry. Even most street vendors transitioned to using the pre-frozen variety…which just never live up to how nice they look.

So, it was time to bake. First, I had to learn what made pretzels different from other breads. It turns out that one simple step makes all the difference. And it might scare you. A little bit.

Lye. Yes, drain cleaning, soap-making lye. Before you wonder, yes a food-grade version is available, and no you should not use that bottle of drain cleaner from the hardware store. Lye (sodium hydroxide for the scientifically inclined) is an alkali solution that changes the pH of the dough in such a way that it helps the crust gelatinize, achieve the dark color, and even makes the salt stick. It’s also responsible for the distinct pretzel flavor and texture of the crust.

Many home pretzel bakers forgo using lye because it requires some extra precaution due to its caustic nature. Instead, they use a solution of water and baking soda. It produces a similar result, but not the same flavor. And unfortunately, after they cool, the pretzels develop a weird metallic taste. I can’t (or shouldn’t) eat an entire batch of pretzels while they’re still warm, so I’d rather be able to keep them around longer and get that authentic flavor. One that will remind me forever of beautiful days walking around Berlin with the love of my life. What could be better?

Bavarian-style Soft Pretzels

• 1 tbsp. active dry yeast
• 4 1/4 cups bread flour
• 1 and 1/4 cups warm water, divided
• 2 tsp. sugar 2 tsp. salt
• 2 ½ tbsp. unsalted butter
• 1 oz. food-grade lye
• Coarse sea salt or pretzel salt
• Plastic gloves, safety goggles, vinegar, and nonreactive pans and utensils.

Proof the yeast by dissolving it in ¼ cup warm water, along with 2 tsp. sugar. Let the mixture sit until foamy, about 5 minutes.

In the bowl of a stand mixer, combine the bread flour and salt, then add the yeast mixture and full cup of warm water. Once the dough comes together, knead it for 5 minutes with the dough hook or by hand. The dough will be very stiff.

Allow it to rest for 5 minutes, and then start kneading in the butter. Knead for 5 minutes, or until the butter is completely incorporated and the dough is very smooth and elastic.

Roll the dough into a ball and place it in a lightly greased bowl. Toss to coat the dough ball in oil, and then cover the bowl and allow the dough to rise for an hour, or until doubled in side. Degas and divide the dough into approximately eighteen 2 oz. pieces.

Roll each piece into a foot long rope. Rest for 2-3 minutes and then shape the pretzels. Take a rope of dough, roll it out another 6 inches and then twist into a pretzel shape. Glue the “arms” down with a dab of water.

Set the pretzels on two baking sheets lined with parchment paper and refrigerate for one hour. The surface will dry out and a skin will form on top: this is a good thing!

Put on plastic gloves and safety goggles. I wear a surgical mask too, but mostly because I’m short and my face is very close to the pot.

Wipe the surface of your work table with some white vinegar, and keep a small glass of the vinegar nearby. It’s unlikely that there will be any bad reaction, but if there are vinegar will neutralize the reaction almost instantly.

To make the lye solution, measure one quart of cool water into a nonreactive saucepan. Slowly add one ounce of food grade lye and stir gently to dissolve. ALWAYS add the lye to the water and not the water to the lye. Doing it the other way around may cause the lye to react and combust.

Dip each pretzel in the lye solution for 30 seconds and then place back on the parchment-lined baking sheet using a slotted spoon. Sprinkle the pretzels with coarse salt and then let them rest for 20 minutes. Preheat the oven to 375 degrees F.

Wipe everything that may have come into contact with lye with a vinegar soaked rag and then wash with warm soap and water. This may be overkill, but if you have kids or pets around, better safe than sorry I say.

Bake the pretzels for 20-25 minutes or until they are a deep golden-brown. Eat and be happy. Is it worth the hassle? You be the judge:

It is said that an Italian monk invented the pretzel in the 1600s, and that the crossed “arms” across the middle represented folded hands. He supposedly gave this to children who learned their prayers faithfully, but as with much of food lore, there isn’t a whole lot of evidence to back that up. This monk referred to the bread rolls as “pretiola,” which translates to “little rewards.”

I’d say that’s about right. This batch went off to the Arlington County Fair to be entered in this year’s baking competition. I certainly hope the judges find them rewarding.

Ciao for now,

Neen

When I think of my gram, I think of one of my earliest loves: The ocean. My grandparents retired and moved to Florida the year that I was born, and so we most often saw them on our vacations to their home in Melbourne. Holding grandma’s hand on one of those earliest trips, I thought the surf crashing onto the sand was the most majestic thing I’d ever seen.

And although some of what inspires us in childhood disappears, the awe of the ocean has never left me. It consumes my deepest core and most sacred place with happiness. It is where the divinity I see in the universe manifests itself most fully. It is where I find peace.

I associate the ocean with an unconditional love. If I let it carry me, eventually I rolled back onto the shore. There I came to rest on the wet sand, breathlessly laughing.  For hours on end, I rode the waves, tumbling and diving back in until I was so dizzy I collapsed on my beach towel. Then it was home to Grammy and Papap’s house, where they spoiled us with enormous and delicious meals, and endless hugs.  To my brother and I, going there meant limitless fun: Theme parks, mini-golf, ice cream sundaes, arcades, feeding the ducks, trips to Medieval Times, movies, and even a few vain attempts at fishing.

Today, it doesn’t matter what city I’m in, but whenever I’m at the ocean, Melbourne is where I am. My home away from home. I feel the water and smell the air and am overwhelmed with love.

What a beautiful gift. To have the ocean air be so powerful that it heals my soul with its breath, to have the sand always feel like sturdy ground beneath my tired feet, and to know that the waves will always bring me back to shore.

In the midst of my hurt that she is gone, I feel so thankful for that gift. Because it can never be taken from me, and so I know that she (and my Papap) will always be with me.

Virginia Patella – July 10, 1924 – July 27, 2013

One of the things that my gram made for us on a regular basis was a soup called stracciatella, or, “rag soup.” It was one of my favorite things, and she knew it. Nearly every time I came home from college there was a quart or two of it reserved for me in my parents’ freezer. During a recent winter when I was going through a difficult time, she made me some and my mom went so far as to overnight ship it to me so I could use its healing powers as soon as possible.

Although she omitted the spinach most of the time because my Papap didn’t like it, I re-added it when I started making stracciatella at home. For me, the idea of having the most comforting food in the world become one of the things I ate to keep my iron up made all the sense in the world. Not only did it then bring my soul peace, but it brought my body strength.

Stracciatella Patella

• 1 gallon chicken broth*
• 12 oz. fresh or frozen chopped spinach
• 8 oz. acini de pepe or other pastina
• 8 oz. ground beef
• ½ cup parmesan or pecorino romano cheese
• 3 eggs
• Salt and pepper to taste
• Fresh chopped parsley

Bring half of the chicken broth to a boil in a large pot and add the pastina. Cook at a heavy simmer for 10 minutes.

While the pastina is cooking, season the ground beef with salt and pepper and form small spoon-size meatballs. I usually make them no larger than 1/3^rd oz. Saute the meatballs until they are browned and set aside.

Add the meatballs and seasonings to the soup and cook for another 10 minutes.

Beat together the eggs and cheese, then pour in a steady stream into the pot of soup while whisking vigorously, and whisk for a minute.

Add the chopped spinach and simmer until everything is hot.

*The extra broth is used if you refrigerate / freeze and reheat the soup. The pastina will absorb some of the liquid, so each time you reheat a portion, you’ll need to add some broth to make it soupy again.

This soup is the perfect meal: Some vegetables, pasta, rich proteins, and a warm broth. It requires no side dish, freezes like a champ, and can be on the table in a half-hour. For someone like my grandma, who was always working hard, taking care of her three girls, and serving her church and community, it fit like a glove.

Of all the foods I make, this is the recipe that is most transformative. The recipe that can make any day better, any bruise less painful, any hurt feeling less sharp.

This is where I turn when I am floating away and cannot see the land. I make this pot of soup and yes, the tide rolls me back to the shore.

I taste it, and I am home.

Ciao for now,

Neen

There it was.

There was really only one obstacle on Warrior Dash that I felt unsure of my ability to tackle. They call it “The Great Warrior Wall.” For as grandiose as it sounds, it’s just a 15 ft. wall with a rope hanging down the side. There are no footholds. Once you get to the top there are a few handles to help you down the other side, but it’s getting there that is the challenge.

I’d thought about it for weeks. I could never climb up the rope in gym class, never do a pull-up or a chin-up to save my soul, and only recently found enough upper body and core strength to do REAL push-ups. Surely, I could not climb a wet, muddy, 15 ft. wall with nothing but a thick rope to help me up.

I didn’t count on being angry.

It’s strange. I always tell myself how much I need to approach situations with a positive mindset, but I learned a valuable lesson the day of Warrior Dash: Sometimes you can’t. And then? Well, you make the negative work for you.

So there was the Great Warrior Wall, painted completely black and looming over me. A panicked middle-aged woman was perched at the mid-way point with her arms shaking as she gripped the rope. I couldn’t tell whether she was terrified to go higher or just exhausted from pulling herself up in the first place. It was how I imagined myself looking in a few—

“See? Just like that. See how she’s leaning back and using the rope for leverage?” I realized that I wasn’t on the ground anymore. In fact, I’d passed the panicked woman and was almost at the top ready to throw my legs over and climb down the other side. Her friends were pointing me out. I had no idea how I’d gotten there, but remembered the thought that passed me by mere seconds beforehand.

You have nothing to lose.

The wall I’d thought about, dreaded, and planned a thousand ways to tackle was almost entirely behind me without even enough time for doubt to creep in. Because I was angry, hurt, and had absolutely no clue who I was. I was feeling such a loss of identity that it took away all of the negative thoughts I had about myself in addition to the good ones. So instead of assuming “I can’t”, or thinking “I can,” I just did. Granted, the sentence, “I’ll show you, you son of a…” probably flitted through my mind with more clarity than I’d like to admit.

But I climbed that damned wall. Not only did I climb it, but I barreled through 3.6 miles and 12 other obstacles covered in rain, mud, sweat, tears, and even a little bit of my own blood. And 3.6 miles later I elatedly threw my mud-caked feet across the finish line.

I rode the adrenaline high, took pictures, enjoyed a steak with my husband and father-in-law, went home, and burst into tears.

The race had been the ultimate distraction since finding out the day beforehand that I’d lost my job. It doesn’t matter how many times the powers-that-be tell me that my position’s elimination was just the way the cards fell in our department’s reorganization, it still feels as though I have been left behind and left out of something I put my heart into making really special. And the sense of loss I feel over no longer being with my colleagues every day has been overwhelming. I’ve always said that I have the best coworkers (why else would I bake cookies for them every week?), and having that taken away is honestly one of the most emotionally challenging things I’ve gone through this year.

Bruised inside and out, I stood in my kitchen with the medal from Warrior Dash swinging gently from my neck. Running my fingers across the smooth edges, I had a brief epiphany:

You climbed the wall you never believed you would climb. And you will climb this wall too.

And it began with letting go of the anger, and letting in the thankfulness for what I have had over the past five years. As my last weeks at the Folger go by (all too quickly), I find myself baking a lot more—just wanting to get in those last few treats to share with everyone at morning coffee.

What goes better with coffee than biscotti?

Biscotti (plural of biscotto) comes from the Latin word “biscoctus,” which means “twice-baked.” Historically, it refers to items which were baked twice in order to dry them out for long-term storage. The baking process, and the lack of fat that could easily go rancid, renders them somewhat nonperishable. These cookies are also referred to as cantuccini in parts of Italy and Argentina.

Aside from being mail-friendly, I love biscotti because they pair well whether you’re a wine or coffee drinker, they’re a really tasty but not-too-sweet cookie, and they are extremely versatile. For this iteration, I picked flavorings centered around finding that perfect complement to your beverage of choice. Pecans for an earthy, nutty flavor; semisweet chocolate for rich sweetness with a little bitter note, and finally dried sour cherries for some tartness. I’ve tested their deliciousness alongside coffee and found it to be just right, but you’ll have to do some more extensive testing to find out what wine you like with them best ;-).

Chocolate, Cherry, and Pecan Biscotti

Cook’s note: My photos show a double-batch, so do not be alarmed at the volume. The written recipe makes 2 loaves (approximately 40 cookies).

• 3/4 cup brown sugar
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 3 eggs
• 1/2 tbsp. vanilla extract
• 2 3/4 cups flour
• 1 tsp. baking powder
• 1/2 tsp. salt
• 1 cup semisweet or bittersweet chocolate chips
• 2/3 cup chopped pecans
• 2/3 cup dried tart cherries
• Egg wash: 1 egg + 1 tbsp. water, well beaten

Preheat an oven to 325 degrees F and line a baking sheet with parchment paper.

Beat the eggs with the sugar and brown sugar until thick. It will take about 3 minutes in a stand mixer set to medium speed. Add the vanilla extract.

Add the flour, baking powder, and salt to the egg/sugar mixture and stir to combine.

Stir in the cherries, pecans, and chocolate chips.

Allow the dough to rest for 5 minutes and then divide it in half. Roll each half into a log about a foot long, place on the baking sheet, and then flatten the logs so that they are 3-4 in. wide. Brush the loaves with egg wash and then bake them for 40 minutes, rotating the pan once to ensure even done-ness.

Remove the loaves from the oven and lower the oven temperature to 275 degrees F.

Cool the loaves on a wire rack for 5-10 minutes, and then cut into 1/2 in. slices. Arrange the slices standing up on a baking sheet. They do not need to have a ton of space between them, but they should not touch.

Bake for 22 minutes and then move to a wire rack to cool completely. Store in a well-sealed container.

If I can let my coworkers know anything before I head off toward whatever adventure lays in front of me, it is that they are important, they are loved, and they will always, always be welcome in my kitchen. It may not be as close as my picture-laden office on the second floor, but I can guarantee a steaming cup of coffee, a smile, and at least one delicious cookie at the little brick townhouse in Arlington.

Ciao for now,

Neen

Nine Aprils ago, I was of my own free will, laying in a hospital bed and staring at my hands. They felt naked. The ring mom and dad got me for my confirmation and the one my aunt gave me at my high school graduation were safely tucked away in the overnight bag I left with my parents.

“You know you can’t keep this a secret.”

In a matter of weeks it was going to be obvious. I was already wondering how I’d feel about the questions and (potential) judgment from others. It had already crept up from friends I expected would be supportive, and scared me off of saying much to anyone outside of my immediate family.

“You realize this is permanent, right? This is for the rest of your life.”

True. And at eighteen years old, what clue did I have about permanence? Was I even mature enough to be making a massive life decision? My heart raced a little more quickly.

“You can do this. Would mom and dad ever support you doing something like this if they didn’t think it was going to help?”

I found myself wishing that hospitals didn’t have such stark white walls and fluorescent lights everywhere. All I wanted was a soothing blue ocean, and I tried to picture the summers we spent on Satellite Beach basking in the sun and eating pizza at Bizarro’s.

“Pizza. That’s going to be a hard one.”

Why was I thinking about food? This was the worst possible time to be thinking about food. For the next 6 weeks, there wouldn’t be so much as a crunchy Cheerio in my diet. The kitchen at home was already full of soup, tuna, cream of wheat, and eggs. Even eggs were out for the first two weeks. The panic came back and I suddenly wondered how fast I could get the saline IV out of my arm, and bolt out of the hospital before anyone noticed.

And then there was peace. There was nothing. There was silence.

“This is going to save your life.”

I’d technically been obese since my early teen years. I was always overweight as a kid, even when I swam year-round, but teetered into obesity once high school hit. Between school, marching band, drama club, forensics, a job at the YMCA, a job at the jewelry stand, and time with family and friends, eating right didn’t make my list of priorities. By the time I was a junior, I was only pretending to not hate every single thing about my body. I wanted to be pretty, so I wore lots of jewelry, dyed my hair fun colors, bought sparkly clothes at the plus-size store, and tried to convince myself that it was okay. But simultaneously, I tried every single diet in the book. Changing myself became an obsession, and I went to lengths that I am not proud of to try to lose weight. The “safe” ways like South Beach, Atkins, Weight Watchers, or liquid diets stuck for awhile, but every attempt had an end, everything I tried failed at some point. Temporarily, I could shed a meager 10-20 lbs. but it always came back. I’d find myself buying boxes of cereal to replace the ones I shamefully decimated in a matter of a day or two, destroying the empty boxes and throwing them in a trash can away from home. I tried to hide the binges, but after awhile all it took was looking at me to know that what I ate in front of others could not possibly be ballooning my body at such a rapid pace.

It got worse when I went to college. For the first time in my life I was making food choices entirely on my own, and the freedom was almost intoxicating. Grilled cheese sandwiches and chocolate chip cookies for lunch, all washed down with a big glass of diet coke? Hell yeah. Breakfasts comprised of double Pop-Tarts and Odwalla smoothies? Bring on the sugar rush, baby. I’d catch myself every so often, and the shame would draw me back toward the complete opposite end of the spectrum. Before I knew it, everything would flip again and I’d be hiding in my dorm room destroying half a box of penne. Writing that out now makes my face turn hot and red. After all these years, I’m still embarrassed at what I couldn’t just control. People don’t think about someone obese having an eating disorder, but that’s exactly what it was.

At my highest weight–somewhere in the 280s.

And so there I was, nine years ago, freezing in a thin hospital gown, 280ish uncomfortable pounds packed on my bones, and a little sick to my soon-to-be reorganized stomach. Dr. Quinlin pulled back the curtain to my little cube in the surgery prep ward and gave me a warm smile. “How are you doing this morning?”

“Nervous.”

After all, this (wonderful) surgeon was about to make a bunch of incisions in my abdomen, close off a rather large portion of my stomach, bypass a long section of small intestine and reattach the rest of the intestine to the remaining egg-sized piece of my stomach. That’s the short description of Roux-en-y gastric bypass. For the next week and a half, I’d have only clear liquids, the two weeks after that clear and opaque liquids, the four weeks after that just soft foods, and finally a slow reintroduction to coarser solids. Basically, I was about to be an infant again. I was going to re-learn to eat, and in doing so, try to undo almost 2 decades of bad habits and damage to my body.

A simple diagram of RNY gastric bypass surgery.

Dr. Q gave me a smile and a pat on the arm. “You’re going to do great, okay?”

“Okay.”

A few hours later, my new life began. It was like hitting the reset button, getting the fresh start I always wanted. Starting from scratch.

Visiting my brother in Lucca, Italy about 3 months post-op. I was down about 55-60 lbs. at that point.

And what a miracle. What a life it has become. There is not a day that goes by that I do not believe that Dr. Quinlin saved my life in April 2004. Yes, I have had to make an effort—one that felt unbearable at times for the first year post-op. Yes, I still have to work at making good choices every day. Yes, I still have to fight the (much fainter) urge to fall back on disordered eating and a distorted perception of food.

But do you know what I can DO now? I can bike 20 miles, I run 5k and 8k races, I do ninety minutes of yoga six days a week, and go through body weight circuits like a champ. And mostly I do all of this just because I CAN. Because there was a time that it felt so impossible, and so far out of my reach that I didn’t even dare to dream of it. There was a time when I was out of breath after one flight of stairs. I always believed that even if I was somehow thin, surely I would never be athletic.

At the Race for a Cause 8k – October 2012.

I’m Superman!

People often think of gastric bypass as some golden ticket, or “the easy way out.” There’s not a post-op alive who hasn’t heard that line and had to grit their teeth and smile thinking, “You have no (expletive) clue what you’re talking about.” It’s not easy to withstand those first few restrictive months, the physical healing takes a long time, restaurants are difficult for the first year post-op, finding 70 grams of protein everyday can be really hard, grocery shopping was a nightmare at first because I had to evaluate every label and ingredient, and I had (and have) to be ridiculously careful consuming sugar or alcohol; the former because I hate feeling nauseated, and the latter because I would like to remember entire conversations. If you were (as I was) a major food addict prior to surgery, there’s a good chance you’ll look somewhere else for comfort. If you aren’t prepared it can turn into something ugly like alcoholism. As a regular contributor to a weight loss surgery forum, I can tell you that it is a familiar refrain. Trust me when I tell you that this was not an easy way out. It was as hard, if not harder than any diet I ever tried. The reason it worked for me was its two-fold approach: Restriction and malabsorption. Since the stomach pouch is quite small, the amount of food that can fit is much less than normal, and since part of the intestine is bypassed there is a reduction in the amount of calories that the body absorbs. The malabsorption is effective for about the first year and a half, but the restriction remains permanently for the most part. It is not uncommon for patients to experience some weight re-gain once the “honeymoon” period is over. I most certainly did. I put 30 lbs. back on before I looked in the mirror and thought, “Don’t waste this. You got your second chance.” I’d accepted remaining overweight because it was better than being obese.

“But that isn’t why you had this surgery. You had it to be truly healthy.”

So I re-grouped, started tracking my nutrition and exercise, and worked to find the balance that helped me get to and maintain a weight in the normal range for a woman of my stature.

…and totally jumped out of a plane.

I am literally half of myself. But unless I told you (and I do tell people because it has been such an incredible life change), you’d probably never know I had surgery. You’d probably just think I have a small-ish appetite. I still eat all of the things I used to love, just less, and I’m a lot pickier about the quality of the food I eat. We have dairy, meat, and poultry products delivered from a local farm once a week, and buy as much of our produce from the nearby farmers’ market as much as possible. Sometimes that isn’t so great for my wallet, but the way I see it, food is part of my health care costs. And my health is more valuable to me than I can explain.

Same jersey, just 9 years in between pictures.

So here I am, nine years later and 135-140 lbs. less than my highest recorded weight. There is one pair of size 22 pants that hang in the very back of my closet. Every so often when I am feeling truly discouraged, I fit myself into one leg of those pants and remember all that I couldn’t do, and everything that I can do now. It might not be a big deal to someone else, but to me it’s nothing less than miraculous. Could I have lost weight and maintained that loss without weight loss surgery? To be honest, I’m not sure. I understand so much more about obesity now that I know my problem was not simply a lack of willpower. I’m not sure what I’d be like today if not for RNY surgery.

But I know what I really am today, and what I am is so grateful that I still cry my eyes out every single year on one special day late in April. My heart overflows with gratitude for Dr. Quinlin and his staff. Thank you, thank you, thank you for helping me to achieve a healthy and active life, the life I never dared to dream of as a food-addicted, ashamed teenager. Every single run, every single yoga practice, and every single healthy check-up I think of you. I will never, ever forget what you did for me, and the compassion and care that you showed every step of the way.

Oh, how things change…(click for full-size timeline!)

I remember the first time that I wasn’t bothered that I couldn’t find a cab outside of the Prudential Center and would have to walk the mile home to my dormitory carrying 6-7 bags of groceries (a Thanksgiving turkey for dinner with friends included!).

Looking up at the cloudy, gray November sky at that moment, it was  more beautiful than anything I’d ever seen in my life.

A moment of grace and gratefulness.

Ciao for now,

Neen