I am not an elephant! I am not an animal! I am a human being!

I was all excited, I had been cleared by Mean Melanie and Awful Andrea. My coworkers could finally relax, I was about to get a surgical date. Except I wasn’t. Except my sleep study that was completed a year ago had shown some mild apnea – basically my oxygen saturation dropped down to the mid 80s for a total of 30 minutes out of 8 hours. This prompted a pulmonary appointment, and that resulted in……

“You are going to need c-pap because people with sleep apnea tend to die after surgery”

Okay that is a slight exaggeration – there is an increased risk of death, near neath or critical respiratory events in obese patients with apnea, but it is a pretty small increase. This of course meant I now had to have a c-pap machine. Tick tock, tick tock…surgery moves ever further away. it’s been over a year since I started this process, and I ready to just get it done…but here is another delay (also don’t even get me started on an extra group meeting – this time a pre-op support group, in case you missed my post about Fat Class – I hate group therapy of any kind!).

Tick tock. Tick tock. It takes 2 weeks to get the machine, and with the machine comes a slew of ethical problems. The machine has a modem, the provider of said modem is AT&T, my data is transmitted to the device company who can then share it with the home care company, the insurance company, my doctors. This is actually more of an insurance thing – basically if you don’t use it, you lose it or get a huge bill for it. I am not thrilled about my sleep data being out there in the interwebs, it feels all too big brother, but no c-pap, no surgery so here we are,

Night one wasn’t awful, I managed 4.5 hours with the blasted thing on, night 2 was awful. Seriously that pressure goes up, you breath through your mouth and you feel like you are suffocating. I lasted 2.5 hours. Tonight I will try the addition of a chin strap to keep my mouth shut (husband is doing a happy dance…).

And every time I put it on I instantly quote John Merrick…….


Adventures From Fat Class

Let me totally upfront here, I hate “group” anything. I hate working groups, I hate group therapy, I guess I am just not as much of a team player sometimes. I will do anything for anyone, but please do not make do a project with other people. But here I was on a Thursday evening in a room filled with strangers, in the mandatory Pre-Operative Bariatric Educational Program.


Questions and comments included “Does this mean I can never eat cake again?”  “Is broccoli a vegetable?” “But I don’t like cooking, McDonalds is just easier” from the attendees and gems like this by the facilitators; “You can never drink out of a straw again,” “You cannot drink coffee for a year, or alcohol ever again,” “You must empty all the junk food out of your house,” “At first you should drink out of a sippy cup, to control how much water you are drinking,” “If you don’t do these things you will fail.’ I started to despair. I was willing to go through this for the positive reasons – weight loss, improvement of overall health and well being, and here I was hearing questions that shocked me and advice that basically made me feel as if my life was over, and that moving forward I would forever be the girl drinking tap water from a Tommy Tippee cup, eating kale in the corner at parties, otherwise my newly stapled stomach would expand and I would be fat again, or I would die.

Then came the food journals. I tried, I really tried. I wanted to use an electronic format so that it would mesh better with my life, but that was wrong. I finally developed a spread sheet which was acceptable. However, with the food journal comes the criticism of everything you put in your mouth. I used the wrong protein powder, my breakfast smoothies were all wrong because I didn’t add spinach and or kale to them, I should not have gone out for Mother’s Day dinner, and as for the cooking contest I participated in and won? Well that was just a high crime! I explained that I didn’t actually eat anything that I prepared beyond a half dozen sea urchins and a single scallop, but I guess this was a symptom of my need to cook elaborate meals …..

I struggled through the meetings, but they were utterly soul sucking. I had one make up class to do, as I missed one due to a work commitment, and after that class I literally waited in the parking lot for one of the attendees to reassure her as she was sitting there looking progressively more terrified throughout the 90 minute meeting.

In the midst of my fat classes, I found out that a friend had very quietly had the same procedure at a sister hospital, so we started comparing notes. He had never filled in a single food journal, he was drinking coffee, he was using a straw, he had never used a sippy cup, hell he had even had a piece of cake at his daughter’s birthday! He gave me hope.

After fat class was done I met again with the nutritionist, who by this time I had quietly nicknamed “Mean Melanie” because she never had anything nice to say, she always had a criticism. We spent 70 minutes together where we locked horns . I asked her about the differences between their program and the one at the sister institution – I was simply told “Our program is better.” I never did get a full answer, but by the end of the 70 minutes we had found some common ground. I agreed to do food journals, but in my spreadsheet format, she agreed to back off on the negativity

I had a final meeting with the “Awful Andrea” the NP, who it seems is well known for not being exactly warm and fuzzy. She doesn’t seem to trust me and I don’t like her so I guess we are even… and at least fat class is in the past…..

My Diet is Going to Be Changing

Not so long after my 50th birthday I was trying on clothes at Nordstrom’s or Macy’s and took a long hard look at myself in my undies and thought “Yikes.” I have been a yo yo dieter for years, the hardest thing is I truly love food, i love thinking about food, reading about food, and making food. However, I also weight a hefty 250 pounds and that is not sustainable if I want to be around for my little girl. I also realize that as a post-menopausal woman weight is increasingly easier to gain and increasingly harder to lose.

One evening after work, I wandered upstairs in my building to hear about weight loss surgery. This was not an easy decision, because I remember when people I worked with started having gastric bypass back in Arizona and ended up woefully malnourished. I had heard all the horror stories. When I walked in I was a little heartened by the girl who stage whispered “Why is she here? She’s skinny, ” but I sat through the entire presentation and realized just how much had changed in the world of weight loss surgery. I randomly spoke to a colleague right after that meeting, a colleague who is super healthy, eats pretty much what she wants and it turns out that she had undergone the less invasive weight loss surgery – the vertical sleeve gastrectomy (VSG), and had no regrets. Now, this is me, so of course I dithered for a few months, and finally made an appointment to see the surgeon to talk about the VSG procedure. I just barely meet criteria for this surgery – I am “not quite fat enough” for immediate qualification, but I have a very mild case of sleep apnea so that counted as my “co-morbid condition.” I naturally dithered again, and decided to wait until Spring 2019 to have the surgery so that we could go home for the Christmas holidays.

We came back from the UK and off I went to meet with the Heart and Wellness Team at a local hospital (I say local but every appointment the GPS took me a different way, and I could not make that drive without GPS.). This team consisted of a nutritionist and a nurse practitioner. The first nutritionist I saw was lovely, the NP I did not warm to, but I figured since I would be working with her we had time to develop a rapport.

After these first appointments I went off to see a psychologist to complete a massive battery of tests to make sure I was sane enough to proceed, and did not have any underlying eating disorders or anything that would make the surgery inadvisable. I passed that with flying colors, well, kind of….I am apparently defensive and “further exploration of her weekend cooking and eating habits could be helpful, particularly from a nutritionist’s perspective.” I guess my love of cooking somewhat challenging and elaborate meals on weekends (you know when I have the time) is somehow a teensy bit pathological. (And yes, I know that was a defensive response ….). But I was cleared to move on to the next steps of what was going to turn into a very trying and frustrating process. It all started with “fat class.”


All Aboard the WABAC Machine

I started this blog to write about food in the year leading up to me 50th birthday, and it never really worked out. Life kept getting in the way and we truly had, to quote HRH Queen Elizabeth II, an ” annus horriblis. ” SO I spent the year focusing on the family and just trying to hold things together. I wasn’t easy, there were days where even a simple grilled cheese felt like an impossible task. A much needed mini trip to upstate New York to a friend’s farm helped and then a 2 week trip back to the UK over the Christmas holidays really went a long way to healing some of the residual wounds. And, so now I am starting again, and will try to keep this more updated and more food focused, starting with the rebrand to match my Instagram.

Now, please join  me in the WABAC machine….

I was always a picky eater. My mum likes to tell the story of how I would eat anything until at the tender age of two I got my first glasses. Once I could actually see it was game over, and mealtimes became a veritable minefield. My mum would cajole and threaten and hide foods in other foods. I was a stubborn and willful child and the more she threatened and cajoled the more I dug in my heels. I was seriously the kid who could pick the cauliflower out of mashed potatoes.

Leaving home was life changing, that meant I actually had to feed myself or starve, and since you can’t really life on PB&J (no matter what my own picky eater tells me) I had to learn to cook. Leaving home allowed me to experiment, and it allowed me to learn, and you know what? I realized I was actually a pretty good cook. I learned by trial and error, by under cooking, overcooking, under seasoning, over seasoning and even once by blowing up a Pyrex casserole dish. I went to library and borrowed recipe books, I watched all the recipe segments on television. I force fed my family and friends.

I went on to discover the small butchers and cheese mongers in a local market, and my palate continued to expand, and then in 1990 I discovered Master Chef. It was such a simple show when it first started, home cooks making a 3 course meal in 2 hours. I never missed an episode and I practiced and practiced and finally entered. I made it into the heats! I was so excited, but then I made the fatal mistake of requesting a schedule change at work. The person i asked to relay the message for me was called Gillian Wood, and well, Gillian hated me. She called me back so apologetic, so sad, but she had asked the ward sister and they could not possibly change my schedule, so devastated I pulled out. It was several months later when I was getting ready to leave that job to come tot he USA that I found out that Gillian had straight up lied, she had never asked a single soul. I am pleased to report that karma eventually bit her very hard in the backside.

Coming to US opened up even more opportunities for me, new flavors, new ingredients and new friends to experiment on. Living in Seattle afforded me membership in the $100 club at the Pike Place Market  for my weekly purchases of the freshest fish and seafood. Tucson afforded me homemade tortillas and oh so many spices. Louisiana taught me the simple joys of collard greens in bacon fat, the dish that truly proves that everything tastes better with bacon and finally moving to a major metropolitan area like Boston afforded me more food choices than I could ever imagine.

Of course the past 21 years I have had a partner in crime in the form of Robert, who has suffered through disasters and lived to tell the tale, and who has always been my most stalwart supporter. (Hell, he has even eaten 3 Thanksgiving dinners just to keep me happy.) This past year, he did 2 simple things to reignite my desire to cook, he bought me a dutch oven and introduced me to Phaidon and their line of incredible recipe books.

Now some 20 plus years later, I have no desire to enter the insanity of a reality TV show (not even GBBO) but I continue to cook, and have in recent years really upped my baking game. I want to show everyone that we all can cook, and really we all can bake. Baking is is more precise, whereas cooking a meal allows for a little more creativity.

Stress Baking

I am a stress baker. If I am worried or anxious I find myself in the kitchen making sweet things which we rarely eat at home but which my co-workers generally appreciate. Last night I made milk chocolate egg cookies – chocolate upon chocolate upon chocolate. They are sweet and crunchy and make the world a little brighter.

So what was in my kitchen at 8pm on a Wednesday night stress baking?


I lost 3 colleagues to an angry guy with a gun. The educator for the pediatric unit where I worked, and 2 other professors of nursing who were instrumental in my orientation to being a nurse in the USA. He was angry because he was failing his classes. By all reports he was angry, would shout at his teachers, and had an all-around bad attitude, and a strong sense of entitlement. His entitlement and anger lead to him slaughtering 3 women who he felt had done him wrong. He was not mentally ill, he knew exactly what he was doing when he shot Robyn in her office and Barb and Cheryl in front of a class full of students. He made a very conscious decision to punish, to wound and to destroy. Since that day, I don’t do well with mass shootings (although this was not technically a mass shooting because he didn’t kill enough people). I get anxious, and tearful and angry and sad.

Now I appreciate that my reaction to these things is in part colored by my being English, and being from a country where we have strict gun control. It does not mean as a country that we have escaped since 1987 we have had 3 mass shootings, Hungerford, Dunblane and Cumbria. A total of 46 people died and 45 were injured in these 3 massacres. Since 1987 in the USA there have been 17 mass shootings (defined as more than 4 victims, excluding the perpetrator) and 338 people have been killed (excluding the perpetrators). If we look at specifically school shootings there has been 1 in the UK and that was Dunblane, where 18 were killed and 15 injured in a shooting at a primary school. In the USA since 1997 (the year of the Dunblane Massacre) there have been as many as 226 school shootings. I did not count the dead and wounded because by the time I had gotten through the first 62 shootings (94 deaths and 162 injuries) I just couldn’t keep counting. I was nauseous.

Yesterday there was another school shooting in America. This was the 18th this year, the deadliest since Sandy Hook. It happened in a town in Florida that had just been voted the safest town in Florida. It wasn’t gang related, it wasn’t a random person with a severe psychotic illness, it was carried out by a 19-year-old. A 19-year-old who had been legally able to purchase a semi-automatic weapon, and ridiculous amounts of ammunition. A 19-year-old who can’t legally buy a beer could buy a weapon that has no place outside of the military. He could not by a Corona but he could by a fucking AR-15. The Ar-15 in case you didn’t know was designed off the M16 used by the military during combat. The Ar-15 uses magazines that hold 20-30 rounds. That means this weapon can fire 20-30 rounds per magazine, and apparently an experienced (not professional – just experienced) shooter could on average manage to get off 90 rounds/minute – more if they are just spraying randomly and not worrying about accuracy. Just ponder that for a moment – in close quarters, with people with nowhere to go facing 90 bullets per minutes.

Our politicians are already telling us not to rush to judgment, to send our thoughts and prayers, that its once again too early to talk about gun control. They are telling us to look at the mental health of the perpetrator, and wonder how he slipped through the cracks. We are being asked to wring our hands, and wonder what all we could have done to save him from himself. Here’s the thing though even if he has a psychiatric illness, it is unlikely that it robbed him of the ability to know right from wrong, it is highly unlikely that he was suffering from a psychotic disorder with command hallucinations. When we insist on linking this to mental illness we are stripping the responsibility from the individual for their own savagery. We are denying that in this country we have a gun problem, that it is too easy to get a gun, and too easy to use a gun to solve your problems. We are also stripping the responsibility away from law makers who have been bought and paid for by the gun lobby and who refuse to implement any form of gun control. We put the whims and wishes of the NRA above the lives of children. We must admit that as a nation we have failed.

“I Don’t Want to Change The World, I’m Not Looking For A New England” but I am looking for real New England food

We spend lots of time with “restaurant people.” We know so many chefs, bartenders and servers. We have some understanding of the blood, sweat and tears that go into developing, opening and running a restaurant. We understand how they can also just go “poof” and vanish. We also live in a very small town, with a great many restaurants. I can think of 3 that opened and 3 that closed last year. It was an experience at one of the new restaurants that has set me off on a new “sub-project.”

Ledger opened to great fanfare last year, it is owned by a restaurateur who owns a wildly popular restaurant 2 towns over from us. It is certainly a beautiful space, a converted bank that has been in Salem since circa 1818. Ledger describes itself as “a progressive New England concept, where traditional 19th century dishes, cocktails and techniques will be elevated with 21st century resources.” I had looked at the menu several times before I went for the first time, and I was mostly struck by the cost. This is not an everyday restaurant, this is “special occasion” dining.

ledger menu

Our special occasion came about with the arrival of grandparents who whisked the small one away to their hotel for the night. SO off we went to Ledger, brimming with high expectations because we had only heard great things!.

First of all Ledger is gorgeous, it is just visually stunning, all high ceilings, exposed brick, and art-deco paintings. For all it is in a 19th century bank it felt very much like high end Roaring Twenties Speakeasy.  The space is dominated by a gorgeous square bar, right in the center of the dining room We were seated at the family style table, a long table that runs the length of the dining room. We didn’t get off to the best start because we upset the hostess by asking to sit side by side and not across from each other. We were on a date! We wanted to hold hands not shout at each other across a table! LEDGER_INTERIORS_0617-30

We started with the cheese board, three cheese, some berries, some honey and some nuts. Let me clear – I love cheese – I mean seriously love cheese, being a cheesemonger would be a dream job for me. I have been spoiled by the staff of The Cheese Shop of Salem, who have developed my palate considerably since they opened. The three cheeses on this board were a semi soft, a soft and a blue. Our server did tell us their names but it was so loud in the restaurant that the only thing I caught was that the soft cheese might be very “oaky” due to the way it is processed. The soft cheese was not oaky, the blue had no bite, and the semi-soft really was nothing more than a cheese you would expect in Market Basket labelled “American Cheese.” There was no flavor progression, they started bland and ended bland.

ledger cheese

After the cheeses our server took our entrée order. I went plain and simple with the burger about which I had heard rave reviews and Rob went with the fish special a local striped bass with sunchoke puree, cauliflower and a slaw. The fish was simple, light and delicate, the plating was pretty.

ledger fish

The burger sadly was just grey. It honestly tasted grey, under seasoned, soft, I couldn’t taste the flavors in the aioli. The potato wedges were dry and I think the salt that could have been in the burger ended up on them.

ledger burger

We didn’t stick around for desert.

We were both frustrated, because Ledger has so much potential to do something really amazing and exciting. Nineteenth century New England was so much more than chicken, fish, pork and steak. Where was the game? The rabbit? The venison? The squab? The pheasant? Where were the stews? The chowders? Rob summed it up as “Yankee palate” the domain of boiled dinners and Dunkin Donuts. I wanted to be wowed, especially given the price point, I certainly didn’t want to leave and say; “We should have gone to Bella Verona.”

This experience however led me to a new challenge and a really fun research project. Can a home cook find 19th century New England recipes and elevate them in a way an actual chef could not?

Damn, life keeps interrupting…

Life has this awful habit of getting in the way, so I have really been slacking off as far as this project goes, at least from the writing perspective. The Instagram page is chugging along quite nicely and I am finding that I prefer that platform over Facebook in many ways. There is no nastiness, no fighting, not bitching on my Instagram feeds, just a steady flow of photographs.

So what have I been up to? Have I actually been cooking? Well…kind of…pretty half-halfheartedly really. I have to work on meal planning, and as a glass half full kind of gal,  I hope that with winter rapidly approaching I can start focusing on more meals at home, after all who wants to walk around in the cold, dark and damp?

These beauties were courtesy of my wonderful Anova. Seriously – if you have not tried cooking something sous vide stop what you are doing hop on over to the Anova website or the Joule website – you seriously do not know what you are missing. Yes, it takes longer to cook everything – that salmon? It took 40 minutes, but believe me it is so worth it for the way it is just so perfectly cooked. The filet? Well that took even longer, but for melt in your mouth perfectly cooked steak it is worth the time and the planning that is required. My ever so patient and long -suffering husband bought me my Anova for Christmas last year and I am seriously in love, so much so that this year I have asked for a vacuum sealer (you don’t need this there are all kinds of tricks).



As Thanksgiving approaches, I am thankful for my family and friends. When you live so far away from your actual family your “friends-as-family” become more important than ever, and this year in the midst of the chaos wrought by health issues and the nastiness of the local elections we found a new “friend-as family” with Gypsy and her daughters. Poppy and Lily formed an effortless friendship, and Gypsy’s support while Rob was sick was immense and I can truly never repay her for that.

Our Thanksgiving this year will be spent with Tim, Elizabeth and Vanessa, it’s going to be pretty low key, and quiet, which I think we will all appreciate.

I am thankful that as a family we have weathered the storms of the the past two years, and as I look ahead I am hopeful for a more steady, more calm and more importantly a happier future for us all. The past few weeks have reinforced why I started this project in the first place, as a way to recover what we had lost.