she's just sayin'

For the better part of two months, I have eaten just about every single meal at home. No, I didn’t decide to make a Statement about the restaurant industry, and no I’m not fretting about portion control (seriously, you should see the size of the portions I’m inhaling from the inconspicuous comforts of my own home. Thank you breastfeeding for enabling me to chow with wild abandon.) With a newborn having arrived smack in the throes of winter and subsequent doctor’s orders to keep him away from stores and crowds, I’ve been forced inside, and thus forced to make all of my own meals.

Surprisingly, I’ve discovered I actually enjoy making all my own meals. I don’t miss the burnt coffee that came from a street cart (read: God knows what’s in it or from whence it came), or the overly salted Chinese food from Shanghai Square. I don’t miss the unnaturally square beef from Wendy’s. I don’t miss the ridiculous ¾ of a pound of roast beef the local deli used to pile onto what I had hoped would be a simple sandwich. I like having only one set of hands touch my food (mine) and the peace of mind that comes from knowing no one was lurking in a back room, making sweet, sweet, one-handed love over my burger before it made its way to my mouth.

The other reason I’ve become particularly interested in my food, I must admit, is my new gig as Bessie the Cow (a.k.a breastfeeding). You’d think it would be pregnancy that would make you all food conscious, seeing how a human being is being formed while you’re scarfing down another 6 piece of nuggets. But no, pregnancy is too vague – you can’t see what you’re creating, and so, out of sight, out of mind. But breastfeeding? That’s a whole different kettle of fish. You eat, and within a two hour window, a tiny little creature is flapping his arms, making sucking motions and staring at your chest with saucer-sized eyes, ready to eat you. Suddenly that childhood phrase is ringing in your ears: you are what you eat. Somehow Cheetos cheese puffs, which heretofore felt SO RIGHT, suddenly feel SO WRONG. What chemical made them so radioactively orange? Will my milk come out orange now? Will baby have an orange creamsicle-looking milk mustache when he’s done? Surely baby can’t be getting all the heavenly immunity-boosting nutrients he needs if the only thing I ate in the last four hours was a sleeve of Ritz crackers, a bowl of Tostitos lime chips and some 7-layer dip.

So here I am, overhauling my diet, replacing my 100 calorie all-chemical cupcake snacks with figs, Bartlett pears, walnuts and almonds. My shopping cart looks different these days. I no longer stack up an assortment of cardboard boxes filled with all manner of processed 100 calorie packs that never really filled me up anyway. Instead I pile up clear plastic produce bags filled with fresh produce, and small plastic containers of raw nuts. I’ve swapped my Shanghai Square MSG boxes for spinach salads, homemade BLT sandwiches and pasta leftovers. I’m reading more recipes and attempting to make more fresh dinners, trying to cut back on my 90-second rice packets and ‘meals’ that can be microwaved in two minutes.

I’m reading Food Rules by Michael Pollan and Real Food by Nina Planck. I’m trying to follow Pollan’s Rule to shop the outer edges of the grocery store, and limit my time spent in the middle aisles. I’m considering the case Planck makes for reverting to traditional foods our ancestors ate (before heart disease, cancer and diabetes were epidemics), things like whole milk, real butter, beef and cheese. The thinking behind both of these books is simple, really. And at the risk of sounding all Berkeley circa 1970, it’s right in line with what I want to do for my son: through me, feed him fresh, natural food that—at least more often than not—came from nature, and not an industrial plant.