Do I have two heads?

One of the things I was not prepared for when I gave up processed foods was the number of people who would look at me like I had two heads and forked tail when I told them. I’m only recently out of the pantry (so to speak) when it comes to letting people know this momentous life change. For the last several years, I’ve been quietly and discretely, limiting the processed foods I buy and secretly discarding of the old, tired boxed foods in my cupboards. But, it wasn’t anything I talked about. Sure, people who ate at our house noticed that I seemed to cook a lot from scratch, but that was as far as it really went.

But, now I think we can pretty much assume my little secret is out in the open, at least as far as my three blog followers go. And so, I’ve pretty much just started sharing my news with the world.

Last night, when Brian, Mia, and I headed out for our evening walk, we stopped to talk to the neighbors who were sitting in lawn chairs in the driveway, enjoying a few beers and watching their kids try play in the street—trust me, I know, mine will be in the street too one day, probably. The other kids were clamoring for popsicles, and the parents asked if Mia could have one as well.

“No thanks,” I responded cheerfully and with pride, “I really appreciate the offer, but we’ve decided to go completely processed and boxed food free. We aren’t even eating at restaurants.”

There was a long dramatic pause. I was pretty sure Godzilla had popped up behind me, or at least that she’d suddenly noticed I was standing there with my pants unzipped. (But I was wearing yoga pants, so there was no zipper!) “Why?!?!” she finally ejaculated—and her tone really did make me feel a little like she’d spit on me.

Maybe she thought we were one happy meal away from foreclosure on our home.

“Well,” I said, “It’s complicated. It’s a lifestyle choice. We’re doing it for health reasons. That and we were just going out way too much.”

The discussion that followed centered around where to get the best and cheapest groceries, so I’m pretty sure they still think we just can’t afford the good stuff. Most likely they’ve never looked at a price list from a co-op that special orders meat from the certified organic local farmer. In any case, I was happy to play along. I'm always happy to share info on CSAs and the wonderful (and cheap) selections at our local international markets.

A few minutes later, we dragged Mia away from playing ball with the kids and resumed our walk.

Besides the fact that I have yet to find a restaurant that cooks at the level of scratch to which I aspire, (grinding their own wheat for fresh flour, using nothing but unrefined celtic sea salt, whey fermenting vegetables, making their own cream cheese, avoiding soy, avoiding yeast, avoiding refined sugar, avoiding artificial sweeteners, chemicals or ingredients, and soaking and long cooking beans and whole grains, and using mainly locally, family-farm produced substitutes for my labor [for cheese, and yogurt] and so on), making stuff at home, extends the time we have together as a family and there is something so enriching about that, it almost overshadows the other benefits. (Almost, but not quite. I’m still enamored of the other benefits.)

Take breakfast for an example. Breakfast used to be one of my favorite meals out. It is one of my favorite meals, period. I could eat breakfast three meals a day. I love everything breakfast from pastries and pancakes to sausage and scrambles. I used to love to go out for my regular Saturday cup of coffee, poached eggs, grilled steak, side of veggies, and toast with cream cheese.

It's a little known secret that the only way to get a decent weekend breakfast out is to arrive during a restaurant's sweet hour. This is the hour just far enough from the kitchen opening, so the equipment and staff have had sufficient time to warm up and just before the morning rush—when the kitchen won’t be able to meet the demand and you end up with one cold egg, one hot, half burnt coffee, and no toast. Not to mention that if you get there too late, you wait in line with crowds. You get less attention than the party of twenty that has come in to have a morning birthday party. And, you never get anything else done all day because you don't finish breakfast until time for lunch.

Now that I’ve given up that "luxury", breakfasts on the weekend are completely different. Last Saturday, Mia let us sleep in until 8:30. (About time to rush to the restaurant to barely make Saturday’s sweet hour in times past.) Our little trio flopped in bed for an hour, snuggling, making goofy faces at each other, and giggling at Mia bouncing back and forth between her parents. It was a rosy good time. At 9:30, Brian rolled out of bed to help Mia get dressed and I bounced downstairs to let the dog out and put breakfast on. I was in the mood for something sweet. Something like a pastry. Not Dunkin’ Donuts style. Something more gourmet.

I hadn’t prepped anything, but I wasn’t even tempted to go out. I put the tea kettle on the stove and surveyed the kitchen. Sourdough bread. Check. Fresh local eggs. Check. Raw milk. Check. Fresh, local butter. Check. Succanat. Check. Maple syrup from the Co-Op. Check. Frozen blueberries. Check. I had all the ingredients I needed to make a last-minute French toast. I cut five slices of bread. Two for each adult and one for Mia. (Homemade sourdough is so filling, this is more than enough—especially when Brian and I get to help Mia finish hers!) I made a simple syrup out of succanat and water ( by boiling 1/2 cup water with ½ cup sucanat), then I added a full package of frozen blueberries and let it simmer to a nice thick sauce.

While this was cooking, I mixed up two eggs, vanilla bean, vanilla extract, milk, nutmeg, and cinnamon for sopping the bread. I also heated a pan of frying fat. (I didn’t measure these ingredients, because I never do. For the exact recipe types, I recommend allrecipes.com. Also, I think frying fat is a personal thing…kind of like asking whether you wear a thong or briefs. So, you choose. But, I will say I’m not a fan of really loading up the pan with fat. I like just enough so the toast gets crisp and doesn’t stick.)

Pay no attention to that little jar of coconut oil over there. It's not a whale-tail, I promise!

Melty Melty. Sizzle Sizzle. Make sure it's hot enough or it'll drench your toast!

When the fat was hot, I sopped the bread in the egg mixture and slapped it in the pan to fry. I like to keep the oven on at about 170 degrees when I’m making French toast or pancakes, so I can place finished items inside to keep warm. This way, no one eats alone!

With blueberries bubbling and French toast toasting, I sliced up banana and whipped up some fresh, local cream. I did not add succanat to the cream, because we had plenty of other sweet ingredients. (And actually, the sugared blueberries added enough sweetness. We didn’t even use syrup in the end. A sure sign our sweet taste buds have changed.) I used flowers from our CSA as a centerpiece. All of this took me approximately an hour—about the time it used to take us to get everyone ready, get baby stuff loaded up, get in the car, and drive to a restaurant.

Good enough to tip the cook?

I don’t think I’m ever going to fit in with the people who truly think I’m a freak for eliminating processed foods. It’s not that I am making judgments on their lifestyles or food choices. I think each person does exactly what he or she can do. No more. No less. If once a day, a week, a month, or a year you make the choice to nourish your mind, body, and soul with something you cook at home, from the most basic scratch you can (and that too varies from person to person), I think that’s fantastic. It’s an experience worth having.

So, I’m resolved to get used to this two heads business. I can be the freak of the neighborhood if by “freak” they mean I eat real food. I’ll probably even cook them some when we have the cookout in our cul de sac.

Meanwhile, I will feel satisfied knowing that while someone out there was fighting for a table at Le Peep, fidgeting at the Four Seasons in their heels and hose, or ducking their heads in shame at the McDonald’s drive through, this Saturday, my family had a breakfast so fantastically simple and yet so decadent that I marveled that we ever used to go out. We talked. We laughed. We were relaxed. We bonded over tea, blueberries, and delicious bread. I never once got annoyed by someone talking too loud at the next table over. And the best part? Nobody had to get dressed.