Cooking Green

Cora has been healthy for three weeks. Her current spirited vitality has brushed away the cobwebs cast over our lives when we learned about her IgA deficiency. I like to imagine it's because she's been fixed, that the problem doesn't exist and the tests were wrong.

Regardless, I think we're out of the woods for awhile and it feels great.

I feel like myself again. For one thing, we've slept a lot more these past few weeks. Rather than thinking about sniffles and coughs and diarrhea (and tending to such ailments several times a night), I am thinking again about writing, and food, and fun things to do with a toddler during a rainy spring season in Seattle--more difficult to do than one might imagine considering that we've sworn off indoor play areas. No more public petri dishes like the Zoomazium or the Children's Museum or kid-friendly coffee shops filled with cute but dingy toys handed from one hand and mouth to another.

That is one big frustration of late: I never, ever wanted to be one of those moms that cleans things all the time, and now I carry hand sanitizer and wipes wherever I go.

I am also much more focused on food now than I ever thought possible. As a vegan macrobiotic, homeschooled child who grew up on an island alfalfa sprout farm while listening to my mom talk incessantly about yin and yang, and as a gluten-free person since the age of 12, I feel steeped in food lore to the point of ridiculousness. But there is always more to learn, and I am enjoying the independent process of discovery--searching food blogs, thumbing through books, seeking recommendations from friends, and tinkering around in our kitchen whenever Cora will allow.

My sister recently told me that I am a better cook now that I am a mom. She also told me, years ago, that I am a better person when I am with Brian.

I've always teased my sister that she has a way with words. She used to tell me that, no offense, but my hair really looked quite awful. Or a few months ago on our way to a therapeutic spa day together, she confided in serious tones that my streak of gray hair aged me at least 10 years and advised me to go to a professional to get it fixed.

Of course the cooking reference was a compliment, but I went to bed grumbling; why was it that just because I talk more about food these days I'm a better cook than I once was...because I was pretty okay before, wasn't I? Think of the tortellini salads, for goodness sake!

(Your guess is as good as mine as to why on earth I thought of tortellini salads. Was that really one of my most creative ventures? Surely not. I finally conjured up my years of invested shopping and cooking--chopping a million different ingredients into gigantic salads, grilling salmon and potatoes, rolling homemade sushi, baking baguettes and serving them hot with melted brie and sauteed mushrooms, frying kale in sesame oil and soy sauce.)

But as with many of the things my sister says, the meaning lingers and I have to pause and consider. Has my hair ever really resembled a little dog atop my head? (She really did say that once.) Before she convinced me to get layers, is it possible that I did, in fact, look like a lampshade and a pair of legs wandering down the street? (She actually said that, too.) Does the grey really age me beyond an age I am comfortable representing in my early thirties?

I can agree that I have had a few more bad hair days than the average lady. And as far as being a better person because of Brian, I have to agree. One thing I know for sure is that it is useful to feel so much love, and to feel so loved. It feeds a nice cycle of give and take, making me more likely to smile magnanimously at the grocery clerk than if I were stuck in my head thinking about my latest thwarted attempt at something.

I have to admit that my sister has done the sisterly duty of helping me look a little bit more presentable--no more lampshade 'do, no more little dogs, no more college fare of parmesan cheese quesadillas heated up in the microwave.

So maybe she's right; I can certainly credit my daughter for being a more conscious cook. But am I a better cook because of that?

Several meals I made this week would pretty much convince anyone I was clearly on crack if I thought I was versed in the art of culinary adventures.

After having Cora, I suppose I did have a bit of a coming-out party about my love of food, and I certainly read more recipes these days than I ever have. Before Cora, I felt uncomfortable trumpeting my interest in the food-health connection. Now, because there is a small person's health at stake, I seem to feel more invested in discussing what I am sure is an intrinsic link. Still, I'm not really a better cook, I'm just more aware of food in general. I think about it differently, and I am more focused on whether it's useful--good for our bodies, good for our planet, good for Cora's future.

And lately, I have become far more interested in the iron and vitamin B content of foods than ever before. But I also have to be conscious of how to serve foods in such a way as to convince Cora to love them. And, of course, I want the food to taste good, too.

For example, I want her to eat more green things. Green vegetables are high in vitamin C, iron, B vitamins, and the simple component of chlorophyll, which helps speed oxygen through the bloodstream. She loves broccoli and green beans, and she likes peas because they are so fun to pick up and pop into her mouth. We've tried kale and nori seaweed with some success. Other green stuff? Not so much.

So, what I guess I'm trying to say, as I sit here writing after trying to entice Cora to eat a kale and broccoli grilled cheese sandwich with omega 3 mayonnaise (ha, not a success), is that I plan to adventure into the world of green food a great deal in the coming weeks. And I can't guarantee it'll be a delicious journey, but I'm hopeful that at least it will be an educational one.

And I'll have to convince my sister to come over for dinner so I can try out some of my new wares on her exacting taste. I know she'll let me know what she thinks. :)