REVIEW: Purity Body Wash's All Natural Daily Exfoliating Scrub

Living in a camper is really living the dream. A dirty, filthy dream. We do have a shower—that is, when we have water, which isn't all that often. The shower itself is basically a bucket with a hose. I'm being a bit dramatic here, because there isn't a much better feeling than, after no way to bathe for a week or two besides baby wipes and dry shampoo, standing in a plastic basin with water spraying into your chest and rinsing it all away into a drain. It took until Arizona to fix our plumbing issues, and we now have both running water and a working shower, but the water is fairly limited, compared to a house shower, and the hot not cold water lasts for only three minutes.

That said, I was beyond excited when Purity Body Wash sent me a sample of their body scrub to test and write a review. Anything that can make the #camperlife shower experience more pleasurable is a welcome addition to by bathing ritual, and the email came right when the shower was fixed and we were parked at Sentinel Peak RV Park to work the nearby Gem Show with no other shower options but our own. Even luckier, I was invited to use a shower in a house with hot water, so I took this scrub for a test ride in a more likely situation for you, my readers, to translate into your own lives. Wow, real running, hot water. Must be nice. And oh, IT WAS NICE.

SCENT

The first thing I noticed when I opened the bottle was the refreshing smell of oranges. Unlike some other cleaners and room fresheners, this smell was light and almost effervescent, like real citrus. I was reminded of orange sherbet. Right in the middle of the list of ingredients, one can see why: Citrus Sinesis and Sweet Orange Peel Oil. There's something about real oranges, that smell sends me into a heightened state of alertness while also calming me. According to THE INTERNET, essential oil of orange can be attributed to "anti-inflammatory, antidepressant, antispasmodic, antiseptic, aphrodisiac, carminative, diuretic, tonic, sedative" benefits. So maybe what I am experiencing is the combined antidepressant and sedative properties. Or maybe I just really like oranges. Whatever it is, the fresh smell of oranges in this scrub had me sold.

TEXTURE

Have you ever used a body scrub that left you feeling like you just peeled off a body-sized scab that wasn't yet heeled underneath? Or possibly worse, that doesn't feel like it's actually scrubbing but instead just doing a chemical peel? Or just does nothing at all and you're like, how am I even dirtier than when I first hopped in the shower, covered in sweat and bike grease?? Maybe that last one's just me. Anyway, my guess is you weren't using this wonderful scrub. Purity Body Wash's Daily Exfoliating Scrub really does have a great balance between invigorating exfoliating properties and skin nourishing botanicals. The scrub itself is made of walnut shell powder, and the grain is fine enough that is it noticeable without being abrasive.

CONDITIONING

Yo. I'm in Tucson, transplanted from a place with 100% humidity. The dryness is real. I can't be messing with anything that dries of my skin more than necessary, and moisturizer is a daily requirement. I'm guessing it's the aloe front and center of the list of ingredients, the tapioca starch and coconut oil that are directly below the orange essences, as well as the essential oil of sweet orange, that make this such a luxurious joy of a wash. Just using it in the shower, my skin felt moisturized and clean. When I washes in my own cold shower, I didn't need to moisturize afterwards. With the hot shower, I did, but again—Tucson. 

CRUELTY FREE, NATURAL INGREDIENTS

The first label I look at when buying beauty products is the price (I am a writer living in a travel trailer, let's be real here). But the second label I always check, and the one that touts all others, is whether or not a product is tested on animals. If it is, then it might as well be a bottle of battery acid. Sometimes, it isn't tested on animals and it practically *is* a bottle of battery acid, with all the chemicals in it. And not just like, Propanediol, which is derived from corn. All of these ingredients are naturally derived and vegan. It does contain Cocamidapropyl Betaine, which is derived from coconut oil but which I've also read some mixed reviews about (here's another link, which I *think* is mainly about ethic sourcing and labeling, but it's hard to tell), but I'm not very knowledgable and need to do more research, and even these sites seem pretty foggy in their information. I certainly wouldn't write off Purity Body Wash just for this ingredient, especially since it's in just about every wash.

Final verdict, I love this body wash and would recommend it to anyone, pending an allergy to Cocamidapropyl Betaine, and feel like it really left my skin feeling nourished and read to face another day of hard labor.

ANOTHER POSITIVE INTERACTION WITH MY MOUNTAIN BIKE

Since all my bellyaching after riding the Jay Hoggs trails at Georgetown Lake (okay, maybe it was the all the bean tacos I've been eating), I redeemed myself to my bike and again feel worthy of owning such a complex yet simple machine. Evan and I nursed our egos with a short, spry 15 mile road ride around the farm towns just East of Austin. Again ready to face our two-wheeled friends, we tried our luck at Walnut Creek, Northwest of Austin. It was a Sunday, around 11 a.m., and the park was absolutely packed. We talked to a lot of riders, including cyclists associated with the Austin Ridge Riders group ride (though the ride itself had already taken off), and set out exploring. The trails were much more in line with what I'm used to riding: punchy uphills with lots of turns and not a lot of visibility, some creek crossing, and more roots than rocks. It felt like riding Pittsburgh during the best day of the year, when the trails are dry but not decimated, all the dogs are on leash or otherwise controlled by their human friends, all the cyclists are happy to be out and see other riders, and the trails are fast and swooping and hold onto tires not like peanut butter but like a well-made wooden roller coaster whose bearings have been properly greased and maintained (dig?).  Rickety but the leap of faith isn't totally unwarranted. I felt alive! Really!

After that, I felt like I had made up with my bike, whom I'd previously embarrassed at Georgetown. Evan and I spent the rest of our time in Austin taking care of errands and riding bikes around town when we could, enjoying local paved trails and the joy of warm air. We left Austin a few days ago and headed to Marfa, which was unfortunately not the place for us outdoor kids, and after one night decided to keep moving down to Terlingua, Texas, outside Big Bend State and National Parks, and home to the Lajitas trail system.

It was an adventure getting the camper down there, and had a few moments where our hearts stopped as the camper and van slowly pushed up hills too steep for some cars I've owned. Once in town, we stopped into Desert Sports, a great little mountain bike shop and all-around outfitter run by some old hippy types. Dogs ran around the showroom while Major Tom antagonized them and we tried to get some information from the large map of Lajitas (the local trail system) Mike pulled out for us. He showed us all best trails and gave us very helpful advice on everything related to the trails, natural environment, Terlingua, and even some life advice, whether or not he meant to. Meanwhile, one of the women who worked there called around the gas stations to see if anyone still had gasoline. No one did.

At the recommendation of the fine folks at Desert Sports, we stayed at Rancho Topenga, a new tent campsite in the area. We were the only ones staying there, and again had some problems maneuvering the camper into the tight spot down a ridge and on a cliff, but we survived and through on some cycling clothes to hit the trails, which were a mere 2 miles away.

The storm could be seen rolling in over the mountains to the Southwest and wrapped around to the North. The trails were all facing Eastward so we took our chances and rode the Trail Loop 3, the best trail in the park. Lighting bounced from cloud to cloud and the sun shifted dramatically above us. It sprinkled intermittently, pushing us to pedal harder to make it back to the van before the rain. We made it just in time, and had to sit inside our van back at the camper to wait for a relative break in the winds and rain to make a run for it.

Lajitas, as a whole, was the most fun I'd ever had on a mountain bike.

Despite the Wind Advisory boasting 40 mph gusts, we headed back to the park to ride the whole thing (with a few jeep roads emitted, because they did not look awesome). Every part of the trail system delivered something magical. Whether it was incredible speed, swooping whoop-dees, challenging rocks, ridges, and downhills, impressive climbs, or just epic scenery, there was no part of the ride I would have done without. I say this now, after having whined about the relatively flat, open section that Mike referred to when he warned us about "heeming and hawing" for too long, while the strong winds gave us a headwind that decimated any speed we might have maintained through the very gradual ascent. Evan convinced me to keep riding, though, pointing at a section of the map up ahead called "Fun Valley."

"C'mon, don't you want to go to Fun Valley? Yeah, you want to go to Fun Valley." Of course I did, I'm not a monster.

The wind came back in my sails and of course, eventually we changed direction and the headwind again became a crosswind and then a tailwind to take us back to the van. It was a good ride, and the first time in a long time that I felt like a mountain biker, like a person who knew how to handle her bike. I rode a lot of sections that would have been too difficult in other parks, because I was having enough fun to try them, and maintained enough speed to succeed. At these times, I thought of an article in Mtb4her.com that I read the day before, called, "Don't Take It Personally, but Maybe You Need to (HTFU)" (Harden the F--k Up). It was true. During the first challenging descent, which I knew I could ride but physically had a hard time not shifting my weight forward and trying to put my foot down, I kept going back to the top and forcing myself to do it until I just rode it. A few other sections were the same way.

When I used to ride a fixed gear, a common romantic notion was that the bike is a part of the rider and vice versa. While it was too nauseating to actually admit publicly, I did agree with the sentiment to some degree. In the case of mountain biking, it's more real than that. Arms are no longer arms. They are extensions of the handlebars and fork and you have no control over them; any control you try to maintain will only cause grief. Eyes are part of the wheels. You need to look where they are going, not where they are. You are a brain, a set of lungs, a set of legs, and a gigantic, beating heart. To think anything more of yourself is to fool yourself. We have to give ourselves to our bikes if we want them to do their jobs, and if we don't want them to do that, why don't we just give them to someone who will?

We Ride With Susan

All things considered, I want to live. The pain my loved ones would endure is palpable enough for me to never want to die; although I have no fear of death, the love I have for my family—and, possibly more importantly, that they have for me—gives me a firm sense of self-preservation. While I do have a nagging sense of invincibility (despite having never stepped into oncoming traffic, there have been plenty of other close calls), I know eventually my family and friends will have the option to attend a memorial service of some sort in honor of yours truly. Hopefully not for a very, very long time. Hopefully my parents aren't here to scatter my ashes.

I don't want a ghost bike memorial service. I don't want my parents to fly in to whatever city I've been living, to be picked up at the airport by my husband, to find the nearest clean hotel to the area where the incident occurred, to prepare a few sentences to say into a news camera or to a crowd of people they've never seen before and probably won't ever again.

I don't want my friends to gather in the rain and exchange awkward, "How are you?" "Good! Well, you know, considering..." conversations. I don't want anyone to catch cold on my behalf, for cops to stand in the road to direct traffic around my ghost white bicycle while cars, enraged behind them, resist the urge to honk as they pass the lone mourner across the street from the vigil, holding a sign that says, "What's the hurry?"

Susan Hicks was about my age, an academic, friends with my friends. She was following the rules of the road that were made for cars, that drivers of cars throw in cyclists' faces when other ghost bikes are chained to poles, rules they insist would have saved that life. A driver wasn't upholding their responsibility as the controller of a 4,000 pound car, and crashed into a car that became one end of a Susan sandwich, along with the car it had smashed her into.

The problem isn't just this driver, it's that this is a common problem. That cars honk when I ride my bike 28 miles per hour in a 25 mile per hour zone, because they want to drive 55 miles per hour. That the railway crossings to enter the park are guarded by rail yard workers who yell at us to get on the bike path as we are trying to get on the bike path they are guarding against us. That cars yell at us to get on the sidewalk when there is no sidewalk, and when even if there were one, it's illegal and dangerous for us to ride on them. That as we've tried to ride home from work, or just enjoy a beautiful day, drivers have become incensed, have thrown bottles at us, shot at me with a bb gun, and have swerved their cars purposefully into cyclists, righting their destructive ships at the last minute, laughing at this game they play with our lives. That distracted driving is an epidemic, and many drivers text and drive while speeding, even in residential or business areas. That four lane roads, like the one on which Susan was slaughtered, carve through college campuses and cars swerve recklessly from one lane to another, desperately afraid of getting stuck behind a bus. That these memorials happen everywhere, and the news covers them, meanwhile publishing slanderous articles and letters to the editor calling for more restrictions on cyclists, who are responsible for a scant number of fatalities.

I don't want my family to come see me in the hospital, or to figure out how to pay off my debts, or what to do with my lousy stuff. I don't want my sister to have to explain to my nieces that I won't be able to FaceTime with them anymore. I also don't want to call my husband's parents and drop the devastating news that their son was killed. I don't want to go through his belongings and figure out how much is enough of a keepsake to keep, I don't want to think about what to do with the house or the cars. I don't want to have to figure out how to continue on with my lousy, ruined, meaningless life without the love of my life. But I know it's so, so possible. 

And yet, still, people have a place to go, somewhere to be ten minutes ago. We are in the way, and the response to a text is more important than a life.

Indeed, what's the hurry?

There were over 250 people standing in the rain today near where Susan Hicks was killed (which is incidentally where Critical Mass starts), holding candles and hoping they don't catch cold. There shouldn't have been anybody.

Over tea and coffee this morning, my roommate and I talked about our complicated feelings about attending the vigil. How it's important to be there, but that for many people it isn't a place to be political, they don't want politics to be involved. But for a group of people who have been asking for years for a bike lane on that stretch of road, who lost a wonderful young person (though even if she was an asshole and old, it wouldn't make a difference), it is political. Sadness and Anger go hand and glove. It's hard to attend a memorial and not be mad that we even need to be doing this, again. It's a horrible feeling to think that maybe, now that a well-loved academic, a smart and charming white woman, a well-known citizen of Pittsburgh, was killed, things will change. That is a disgusting thought. And as it passed through my raging, sorrowful, idiot brain that wants so much to not be the next one whose name is Sharpied onto a sign next to a white bicycle, the SadMad began to subside, pushed out by the familiar depression that so often takes precedent, and I felt sick to my stomach.

Fighting the Good Fight

I skipped boxing last night because there has been a lot of stress in my little family and I thought it would be nice to take a night off from obligations and just ride around the park in the woods at night with my husband. I'm glad I did it, but when I got caught behind a slow truck on my way to boxing this afternoon and knew I was about to be late, I had to fight myself from turning around. I forced myself to keep driving, and when I got to the gym four minutes late, I made myself walk in with my tail between my legs and wrap my hands. Coach Jeff is as kind (to his students anyway) as they come, while still being directive and authoritative. We talk band stuff, because he used to be in the popular PA band Simon Says who played the college circuit in the 90's. I missed the jumprope warm-up but caught all the important lessons, and then finished with the jumprope at the end. To skip it is to only cheat myself. I deserve it to myself to put in the effort and make the most of my time. We all deserve it.

I came home, changed, and was working through the many emails and deadlines I've been pushing around like peas on a stubborn little kid's plate, when there was a knock on my door from my neighbor. I've only waved to her in passing, and one she's come to my door when her puppy ran away. She asked if I knew anyone who knew self defense, and I told her I didn't have any training like those Women's Self Defense classes (though I should really take one), but that I used to kickbox and I currently belong to a boxing gym and take classes there. She told me she wanted to learn how to get away from someone. I showed her a jab, cross, hook. We talked footwork and weight distribution, where power comes from, our arms and legs as mere vessels for the strength and force of our bodies.

She told me she was attacked at a party, how her friends blamed her, said, "When did it become rape?" "'When I said no,' I told them." How it's causing drama in her family now. How the men are getting more and more daring and all she wants is to be able to go somewhere at night and know she will be okay. It happened in a bathroom. She wants to be able to get someone to leave her alone. I told her the jab is the "get away from me" punch. She showed me a move her husband taught her, to catch someone's advance and pull them in close, then knee them in the head. We went over kicks. She told me about a video she saw online, where a woman strangled a guy with her purse strap. "That's what I want to learn how to do," she said.

My heavy bag has been leaning on my porch with nowhere to hang since I moved in here. She has one hanging from a tree. She has sparring gloves.

"I have more support from you and my coworkers than I do from my friends. What's that saying? The more you get to know yourself, the smaller your circle becomes? Well isn't that some truth."

My heart broke for her (for everyone) but we are both excited to have a training buddy to work out with and learn from. When I train, my head is clear, all I focus on is what my body is doing, what my opponent's body is doing. I'm not good, I'm not disciplined, I'm still learning. But I'm really, really excited to have the chance to help a woman regain her agency.

That is what sisterhood is all about.

Newfoundland/East Coast Trail, Vol. 1

Yes, I know I have more stories to tell about Race Across the West, but this has been a very eventful summer and the stories are happening faster than I can write them. Last week I returned from hiking a good portion of the East Coast Trail in Newfoundland, Canada. The heroes of St. John's, for me, are Alison and Geoff, who let me sleep in their guest quarters and leave my things while I was hiking, Bernadette at the tourism department who worked so hard to make our trip memorable and to keep us on track, and Carolyn Cook (there were many Carolyn's), who worked for the tourism department and also at the Outfitters shop in downtown St. John's.

Laura, Wendy, and I met Carolyn on a bright, windy day. She was leading a special walking tour of the area for Writing Walking Women, though only three of us showed up, which created a friendly, somewhat intimate setting. We walked through The Narrows, a neighborhood in St. John's that follows the steep edge of the harbor. The houses reminded me of the homes I grew up near in coastal Massachusetts, and also of Valparaiso, Chile, which has similarly colorful homes stacked into hillsides overlooking the ocean.

From The Narrows we climbed our way along the coast, at times using a rope to steady ourselves along the very narrow trail that hovered between a wall of rock and the battering sea, ultimately approaching the bottom of Signal Hill. Living in Pittsburgh, I was more impressed by this hill's panoramic vistas and that so many people were out hiking or running the trail and stairs. But it did give me a glimpse into what was in store for us on our own hike, and I was excited. When I first moved to Pittsburgh, E. had a sticker that said I <3 Hills that was produced by BikePGH. It took me years to understand it, but once my fitness was able to propel me up all the hills that I'd previously considered in my way, I really did share in this love of climbing, of feeling my body grind away at gravity, of that feeling of satisfaction in descent, knowing it's the product of a job well done. So in hilly St. John's I fit right in and took to the final stairs like a playground, running up sections and enjoying the changing view as I earned my way to the top.

The stairs at Signal Hill

Laura and Wendy, meanwhile, diligently plucked off each step like a tiny victory, and Laura expressed concern for not having any hills in Toronto on which to truly train for terrain like this. Carolyn, in her unyielding optimism, assured her that the trail was hilly, yes, but we would all be fine, and that it isn't a race so there's no need to go faster than one's comfort level. We will all get there eventually.

That's something very important to remember in a group effort. We are only as fast as our slowest member, and that's a good thing. We may spread out over the course of a few hours to take up a collective long stretch of trail, but in order for the trek to be a success, we must regroup, find each other, check in, and allow others to check in on us.

Carolyn Cook, Laura, and Wendy discussing The Narrows

At nine people (eleven at the very beginning, though two stepped back to pursue their own adventure), this was the largest group in which I'd ever hiked, camped, or traveled, and the varied experience and fitness levels was a little concerning until we got on the trail. During our actual trek down the East Coast Trail, my fellow hikers impressed me by not only surpassing their own self-perceived abilities and stamina, but by being such kind and open-hearted travelers. Our most experienced hiker was also our slowest. As our group spread out in different paces, she typically pulled further back, moving at her own steady, sure-footed pace. We all gathered for snacks, lunch, or to regroup and assess the maps, and it was important for all of us to see everyone in the group accounted for physically. Early in the trip, possibly the second night, we had underestimated the technical level of the trail and gave ourselves too much time to rest. Carolyn Cook met with us to switch out some equipment (the first of two times she would come to our rescue with valuable upgrades), and she encouraged us to keep moving forward, but by that point the day had grown long and we had not yet even hit the most challenging part of the day's hike.

The faster hikers in the group pushed forward to find a camp spot so we would know there was a space for all of us to pitch our tents (or hang a hammock, in my case). It was the right thing to do, but felt awful leaving people so far back without knowing how they were faring on the trail (and really, we knew they were growing tired and frustrated). We found a perfect campsite, but none of us to could rest, knowing people were still out there.

Erika was the furthest behind, and Carolyn McCarthy went back to look for her, using her headlamp as a beacon. She and Erika flashed each other as they got close, and then walked along back to the camp site, using their two headlamps to illuminate the way. There are not photos for this part of the trail, because there's no good spot to stop and take out a camera. We did see a moose during daylight, however. There were a couple spots where I did have the space available to safely take out a camera, but looking in the viewfinder, I realized that no photo would ever do the area justice, and no one would believe how treacherous and breathtaking it was all at once. Similarly, there were no spots to pitch a tent, which is why we pressed on as long as we did. Around 10:30 p.m., Carolyn and Erika returned to camp, and everyone pitched their tents and went to sleep with nary a dinner cooked. After that heartbreaking split, we paid more attention to time, breaks, campsites, and each other.

This photo is from a day or two later, and only begins to capture the epicness

It was an important lesson to learn early in the adventure. Our slowest hiker is not to be fretted over, as she is also our most experienced and can survive anywhere (She had, in fact, seen a few small places to pitch her one-person tent, but pressed on knowing we would be sitting at the campsite worrying where she is and if she'd fallen from the cliff. Erika is a true adventurer and a perfect travel companion.), but as a group we must take everyone's fitness and comfort into consideration. If someone's feet are bothering her or joints are giving way, then we all feel it and must help each other by adjusting pack weight, making stops, assessing ultimate end-goals, etc.

Having a decent base-level of fitness and some experience on the trail (though certainly not the most), some of my role in the group dynamic was as the "vibe coordinator," checking in with people, boosting spirits, and making sure everyone was having a good time and not weighing themselves down with fear. Fear is healthy and an incredibly useful tool for human survival. It can also work against us to keep us from pushing through things that are otherwise manageable. A conversation I had many times with my fellow trekkers went something like this:

Me: How's it going, how do you feel?

Hiker: This is so hard, I don't know if I can keep going.

Me: How are your feet? Your pack?

Hiker: Fine, I feel okay.

Me: Well you've already proven that you're a great hiker, you've come this far and have already covered so much ground, so why wouldn't you be able to keep walking?

And that check-in was usually enough to help someone snap out of the mental trap of thinking of themselves as weak when they were all actually incredibly strong women, or as incapable when they were actually all very capable, or as fearful when they were quite brave. My favorite part of the hike was watching people break down their own barriers and realize the wonderful, strong women they truly were, despite their assertions to the contrary. Every hiker dug deep and always had something more to offer the trail, could always keep going. After crying, after saying "I can't," after pleading she wants to go home, after having lousy camp food, after taping blisters on every part of her feet, after equipment failure of every sort, each woman kept trekking, kept finding reserves of energy, strength, perseverance hidden and lying in wait. I was so thankful to be able to spend time learning true bravery from this group of adventurers.

My favorite quote was from Wendy Goodman: "Honestly, I don't like hiking. I don't like camping. I don't like the outdoors. I don't like sweating. But I do it because there are things out here that can't be experienced from a car window, and it's worth the discomfort to be a part of those things, to put in the work to make it to a place like this that only someone who has had this experience will be able to see."

On the flip, one time at a party for a new local bike shop, I heard the most idiotic quote by some dumb-dumb: "I don't understand the point of travel. If I want to see the Eiffel Tower, I can just look at a picture. Why would I want to put in all the effort to go someplace when I can sit in the comfort of my living room and see it?"

I didn't have a concise counter point at the time, but hiking the East Coast Trail and seeing how much of the best of it was relatively unphotographable due to the angles, lighting, danger, and amount of cliffs in the way, knowing that whatever great shot I managed would still never illicit the overpowering emotion of having hiked to that summit, I realize there really isn't a need to counter that person's perspective. This place isn't for him. It's for people who truly want to be there, whether they can and do, or can't and read stories to use their imaginations to put themselves there. 

 Anyway, I'll have more to write here, and will be writing about the people of St. John's, and the landscape of the East Coast Trail over at my other blog, Roadside Fires Burning, shortly.

REVIEW: Nathan's Zephyr Fire 100 hand Torch (that's a flashlight to us Americans)

I've been collecting a lot of products lately during and in preparation for my travels to Vermont, Colorado, Race Across the West, and Newfoundland's East Coast Trail. I've been testing for the past few months or so, and thought you'd like a peak at what I've been into and why. First on the list is:

Zephyr Fire 100 "hand torch" by Nathan.

The first time I heard the term "torch" used to imply "flashlight" was, I believe, in The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe, an incredible book that celebrates curiosity, the spirit of adventure, and the power of goodness (that's what I got out of it, anyway). I like that it's such an archaic, almost lazy term, since really, it is basically just an electric version of what people used to burn witches, hunt down Frankenstein's monster, and make sure they don't fall down the stairs while walking to the bathroom at night. I've done all those things with this modern day fire-on-a-stick, and there are noticeable upgrades since the days of Mary Shelley. Besides not burning anything down, whether accidental or not, here are some real bright sides:

• It's USB-charged. Not only can you charge it by your computer, you can also use any of the newer wall chargers that have a removable chord (just like most cell phones). This is also great if you are backpacking and traveling with a BioLite Camp Stove (review of that forthcoming!).

• The hand harness is really comfortable and easy to use even with bulky winter gloves or mittens. It's also adjustable for left or right handed use. I additionally appreciate the hand harness because when I'm not using the flashlight, I can wear it on my wrist so my hand is free without having to put down (i.e. lose) the flashlight in the dark.

• The rear light. It's such a simple addition to a classic flashlight but it means the world to people out at night in an area with other people and/or cars. It's very visible and I felt safe the whole time using it. This was obviously designed for runners, but the benefits are much more broad.

• The combination strobe light/emergency siren. They aren't the same button, but in my mind they serve the same purpose because I can't imagine running with a strobe light guiding my way, especially since the battery life of these things seems to be exceptionally long. If I were to fall off a cliff while hiking or trail running, the siren would (hopefully) alert people that there's someone in danger and the flashing light would help locate me visibly.

• The downward angle of the flashlight. It pairs well with the hands-free nature of the hand harness, as the flashlight is automatically angled at where I'm looking, without having to keep my hand in a certain position. 

There are a few negatives, however, though they certainly haven't turned me away from this great device:

• I wish it was a bit brighter. At 108 lumens, hiking in the woods with no moonlight still feels a bit dim. If my situation were a bit different, I may consider instead investing in the 359-lumen Zephyr 300. 

• The light and siren buttons are right on top of each other. I've hit the siren a few times in an effort to turn off the light, and it takes 2-3 seconds to turn anything on or off on this flashlight, so in an effort to be stealthy I made quite a ruckus.

• The rear light, while I love it, is really bright. If there's anyone running or hiking behind me, they are blinded by the red blinking orb bouncing three feet off the ground, which is neither safe nor enjoyable. I wish there was a way to turn off just the rear light.

All in all, I love this "torch" and it has proven useful on hikes, runs, dog walks, and even snow shoeing (though it took a bit of adjusting to figure out a good placement with the walking poles). I'm very happy with it and think it will last me a long time and many adventures.

Next on the mat is GoGo Gear's Kevlar Leggings.

Right to Ride (plus healthy vegan brownie recipe)

O, Dinky Bridge! O, Iron Grate! O, Blue Slide!

You trails, thine mud is plush, and roots ripe with traction.

Ye olde mountain bike season is again upon us! Bask in yea glory of semi-dry trails. Bow down in thanks of the trail gods who build berms and fill ruts. And yea, kiss the tire treads of they who rode all winter when the trails were soft and vulnerable, for they knew not of their own power to corrode. Let us give thanks to the sun, brief in the sky as it may be, whose vitamin D reminds us that yes, we do prefer to be alive (though for the past six months may have lost sight of that mission). Let us not take for granted this day of beauty, let this not be our day of rest, for rest will come soon enough—tomorrow (or later today) when it rains, or post-ride at D's for veggie dogs topped with avocado and Sriracha slaw, and washed down with a pint of 1919 Root Beer.

No time for typing, today we ride.

Tonight, however, we make brownies (because: it is raining).

This recipe is adapted from Vega's Easy Vega One Protein Brownies. I changed things around based on what I had lying (laying? I was a writing major, not an English major) around the house, and also to make them a bit more affordable and to my nutrition needs.

Semi-Easy Protein Brownies

vegan, gluten free, about as healthy as brownies can be

• 3 Tbsp ground flaxseeds
• 6 pitted dates, chopped
• 1/2 cup water
• 1 small zucchini
• 1/2 cup apple sauce
• 1/4 cup coconut oil, melted
• 2 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 scoop chocolate protein powder
• 1/2 cup unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 tsp baking soda
• 1/4 cup sugar
• 1/2 cup almond flour

1. Preheat oven to 350º F
2. Soak flax meal and dates in water in a medium sized bowl; let sit for half hour
3. Meanwhile, some prepping! Chop zucchini in food processor until finely chopped. Also, grease 9x9 pan with coconut oil.
4. Add each ingredient, one at a time, to flax mixture, folding until just mixed. If zucchini has left a bit of water at the bottom of food processor, add it if batter feels excessively dry.
5. Pour batter into pan and bake for 25 minutes. These babies are MOIST! So if you like cupcakes to be a bit on the cakier side, bake for an extra five minutes or so.
6. Let sit, cool, and firm for a good 15 minutes before cutting. 

Out like a lamb

First things first...

I knew March was going to be a difficult month for me to keep up with the posts. So I'm *kind of* sorry I haven't been updating very much. Does it feel better if I pass the buck and say I tried to get a few other people on board to write blog posts for me, and they never followed through? No? Hmm... How about if I regale you with tales of adventure in teaching adult writing classes, doing P90X at 2 a.m., and getting to see some of my favorite bands for free because I've been writing about them. I figured that one would win since I wrote it in a list of threes and usually that can make anything sound good. Oh well. I will say that I am letting go of some of my work obligations (and taking on some others, ssshhh) so I should have more writing time available to write to you fine folks here.

There have been some recipes I want to share, and also those REVIEWS. GLORIOUS REVIEWS of headphones, motorcycle pants, gluten free flour, a flashlight, and more (I think). I want to make videos, though, so I need a friend. Once I find one, I'll be Good To Go. Any day now...

P90X is going....fine. But I'm also back at kickboxing and will be doing a challenge with them, having to attend 3 times per week, which will greatly supplement my P90X workout by switching it up, keeping it fun, and adding to the cardio days which don't feel very cardio-heavy for me, based on my needs. So I'll be a force to be reckoned with by May, just in time to turn 33.

In the meantime, here's some pancakes I made this morning. They are gluten free, vegan, and super simple.

Gluten Free Vegan Blueberry Pancakes

Dry Ingredients

• 1 C. All Purpose gluten free flour (I prefer Mama's Almond Flour)
• 2 tsp. sugar
• 1 tsp. baking powder
• 1/2 tsp. baking soda
• 1/2 tsp. ceylon cinnamon
• 1/4 tsp. salt

Mix dry ingredients first, until well blended, then add the wet ingredients one at a time:

Wet Ingredients

• 1/4 C. applesauce (alternative: 1 Tbs. ground flax meal + 3 Tbs. water. Let sit for about 5 minutes before use)
• 3/4 C. milk substitute (I prefer Almond Breeze unsweetened coconut almond milk*)
• 1/4 C. thawed frozen blueberries

Once wet ingredients are added, fold mixture until just mixed, breaking up knots of flour with purpose. Melt about 2 tsp. coconut oil on a skillet, then pour about 1/4 C. batter on pan. Let sit until edges look dry and bubbles form in the center. Flip and let cook a few minutes. I topped mine off with blueberry compote. These are the last of the batch, so they're a bit thin of blueberry swirl. I ate through the first few so fast before I realized what was happening.

*Carton milk substitute isn't the most healthy, in all honesty. Some people prefer using coconut milk from the can because it doesn't have all the additives that coconut "drink" has, and then add water to desired consistency. If you live near coconuts, you can make your own. When my ultra vegan years coincided with my ultra poor days and my ultra bad at math days, I made my own almond milk using cheese cloth, a blender, and some raw almonds. I'll post that another time, but I'm sure you can see where that one's going.

Zen and the Art of Vegetable Juicing

In the morning, the urge is to consume fresh juice. The process is arduous, so I usually revert back to the old stable of coffee and toast, or coffee and leftovers, or coffee and a Vega One shake (I realize that what I have for breakfast equates to that good friend you decide to unfollow on Instagram because her pictures of her breakfast are just too much, but bear with me). Simple sustenance. The process of juicing can seem overwhelming pre-breakfast. Just like a bear coming out of hibernation, I'm groggy in the mornings. Not mean, but impatient — especially with myself. It's also worth mentioning that I typically only get five hours of sleep, to coming out of it feels like the final episode of X-Files when Mulder is in the prison cell and the guard keeps waking him up with "No Sleeping! Tell me what you know!" I mean, not to be dramatic....

But the rhythm of picking out ingredients, cleaning, chopping, assembling the juicer, pressing, pouring, disassembling the juicer, rinsing the pieces, stacking the pieces, clearing the countertops, and drinking this incredibly powerful concoction of energy and life. It sounds like a lot of work (and it kind of is, considering the other option is to just put a slice of bread in the toaster and lather it with Earth Balance, or pour a scoop of protein powder of Vega One into a shaker bottle with 8oz of water) but it's worth it, and it starts off the day with the assertion that my time is my own, and my day is my own, and I am choosing, at least on this day, to start it on the right food.

I'm still doing P90X, and today is the rest day that ends the first 3 hard weeks of constant workouts, next week being a relative rest week. I have to admit, I did skip a few workouts, probably one or two per week, depending on how much work I had to do, especially how much poster work I had. I considered riding my bike 15 miles with 30 pounds of paper to be a decent cardio, considering the Pittsburgh hills. Yesterday, I did the workout of two days ago: Legs and Back, and while my pull-ups are starting to regain some semblance of an actual pull-up (still not there, at least not when I'm trying to bang out a lot of them), but I did not want to get out of bed this morning. It could have been all the junk food I tore through last night after the workout (we had some friends over for a fire pit and one of them brought an Amy's cheeseless pizza, my ultimate weakness, and E. made a vegan blueberry cobbler...and I also had some nonvegan ice cream, and oatmeal stout, but shhh), or it could have been that I've only been getting 4-5 hours of sleep this week as I tried to work on some writing projects, but it felt so luxurious for the first time to just put my feet up and relax in bed, rather than feeling rushed to get anyway. It's also Sunday, but I grant the most appreciation towards that great workout that told my body, hey, just stay here a while. You earned it. I know I didn't really earn anything, but it's nice to think that every once in a while, especially on a Sunday morning while still in bed.

Time For Ourselves

It's taken me a while to find time to update the blog. Posters, one of my many jobs, picked up, as did my writing work. It's been hard to get in every P90X workout, and something that's been causing me some contemplation is the purpose of the workouts, why I love this set of cheesy home exercise DVDs.

I constantly grapple with my own use of time. I'm a procrastinator when I don't take up a project or assignment head-on and right away; most of my editors say I'm a dream to work with, because I get things done so soon; I know myself well enough to know that if I don't do it immediately, I'll forget about it. That said, it leaves a lot of room to be constantly accepting assignments, as they're always finished ahead of deadline. A great problem to have, really. These assignments, of course, don't appear out of the blue, but come from networking and loads of research, reaching out to new people, building and maintaining relationships on all ends of the spectrum. I find myself looking at my Facebook, Instagram, and email almost constantly. It's addictive work, which isn't really something I thought I'd say about a job, but here we are.

How does this pertain to P90X? It's an hour of my day that isn't dedicated to work or social media. An hour for myself, completely, where I have to be in the moment. It's an active meditation. Before freelancing picked up, there was always time found in the day to meditate, time to clear my head and ground myself with my own goals and presence of being without the influence of outside forces. More time for art, love, nature. More time for health in all its forms. This mere 60-75 minutes, now, is a struggle to dig out, which makes it so much more important. Everyone wants something from us, and we can break parts of ourselves off, ad infinitum, if we choose, but its our choice, ultimately, to leave something or nothing for ourselves. Working out is my declaration that at least this small moment in my waking life is just mine. For 60-75 minutes. y attention is just towards myself. It isn't selfish to need time for ourselves, it's self-preservation.

After an incredibly challenging Thursday that including working all three current jobs (posters, journalism, teaching) and a bike ride with a loaded pack from the posters, I took all Thursday off. From everything. I didn't respond to emails, reach out to editors, write anything, fix anything. I didn't clean, I didn't engage in internet drama. A friend who lives down the street came over with his dog and we hung out in the back yard for a couple hours while our dogs wrestled in the mud, then I took a nap, did some stretches, and went out for ice cream at Page Dairy (which just opened for the season). It took the declaration of "this is a day off" to realize how hard I'd been working, how little time I'd had for myself, and how much I needed to just reboot and not put myself up to any expectations.

Today, though, the posters and emails are piling up, and Kenpo X is on deck. It's another rainy day here in Pittsburgh, my elbows, shoulder, and knee/shin are sore and swollen, but as Tony endorses, I'll do my best and forget the rest.

Three Cheers For My Weird Body

Tony Horton, I wish I knew how to quit you.

After some time away from my boyfriend, we are again together for a round of rolling on the floor and grunting, and finding strange and unsurpassable reasons to press the pause button. This time, I'm doing the Lean program, which focuses a bit more of core, cardio, and yoga, rather than bulky muscle. I kind of like having bulky muscle, but I'm trying to slim down a little from the winter weight I've been slowly accumulating like periwinkles under a dock since last winter when I dislocated my shoulder. Sure, I've been kickboxing, and raced bikes, and run the stairs (not as often as I should, at least this winter). But I feel all-over rather soft and doughy, rather than the animal body I felt when I was in the throws of P90X, especially the first go around.

Don't be fooled, though, kind readers. the Lean is still strengthening and muscle-building. Today's Core Synergistics had me doing probably 200 push-ups in varied forms (all harder and more complicated than the original, I promise you that). My measly 8-lb. weights began to feel heavy in some of the exercises. "But Carolyne," you may be saying, "you're such a weakling! You've said so yourself!" And you may be right, but from my perspective I'm still strong, I'm just a whole lot of other things as well.

This will be a good transition (as good as I'm willing to give you, anyway) for the other thing I've been thinking about lately. Modcloth did a great photo shoot recently that used their own employees to model their bathing suits. A lot of the deserved feedback resound of women feeling like their bodies were finally represented. It's important to have representation in photographs that are selling clothes — how will I know how this will look on me? (It looks great, by the way.) But it made me think about representation and my own perspectives on my body. I don't think my body can be represented. I'm awkward, I wear a 32-long pant leg and a small shirt, lengthwise. I'm muscly in some areas (namely my limbs) and doughy in others (this vague middle area). I love my body. I love what is can do, I love that it's mine and that no one really looks like me. I've earned every cell of fat or muscle, each pint of beer at the pub with friends or pint of ice cream at home alone, each "one more" run up the 36 flights of the Cathedral of Learning, each long way home on my bike or decision to run rather than walk through the park. It's all me, all mine.

The things I wish were different about my body aren't things that have to do with aesthetics. I wish my right side didn't light up in the dank Pittsburgh winter from all the times I've fallen on that side. I wish my epidermis wasn't numb, that I knew what this rash was that's all over my shoulders, neck, and chest, and that I still had as much energy as I did when I was 20. Oh well.

Even as a kid I didn't really judge myself, and I know I'm lucky for that. I had an older sister who was half my size and couldn't help but remind me of that all the time. But I'm lucky to have my parents, who made it a point to teach me that my sister and I couldn't be compared. I was heavier than my sister, but taller, different, my own person. And that was a great thing. It is a great thing. I still have a sister who is half my size, and I still love her and look up to her as she looks up to me (literally, because she's tiny.).

In fifth grade, a visitor came to class and asked us to each write down something we didn't like about ourselves. I couldn't think of anything, little brat that I was, so I put my eye color. My dad and I have always been a lot alike, but his eyes are blue and mine are brown and turn green when I'm upset. It doesn't bother me, but it was something that, sure, it could be changed I guess. A girl in my class, whose name I absolutely remember but I'll save her this memory, told me she could think of a lot of things she'd change about me. I don't remember whether she told me what they were, and certainly don't remember what I thought they might be, if anything. Why think about those things? I thought. I still think that, unless I buy a dress that I think will be my size and fit right because it fit the model, and the model looks nothing like me.

I feel the need to give this disclaimer in talking about doing the Lean program because I don't think people should feel bad in their bodies ever, unless there is something actually wrong that needs to be addressed. Do you feel bad because your appendix is about to burst? Get thee to a doctor! Do you feel bad because a waitress gave you a once over when you ordered fries with your burger? That sounds like a whole lot of her problem. But I like how I felt, on a physical level, when I was more fit. I liked feeling like a mammal, each muscle working towards a purpose of supporting another muscle, to propel my body forward for even the most basic actions. I didn't notice the physical change until I saw photos later, or until I started gaining some of that fat back (which I had sort of missed anyway).

I agree with the need for more representation, with the idea that having models all look the same is very dangerous because people are not built the same and will never achieve those beauty standards. But the word is Model. They are modeling clothes to show what they look like. It's helpful to have the models show what the clothes may actually look like on a variety of bodies, but don't take it as a representation of your own validity if you don't see yourself up there. You are your own body, my precious and beautiful reader. If you are tiny like my sister or muscular like me, if you are a feather or a whole hawk, if you have curves on curves on curves or are as linear as the Kansas horizon. It's your body. It isn't you, but it's your body. Learn it, love it, accept that it is probably weird and un-replicable. Now go out and make it do whatever it is that it does best.

The day I went outside for the sake of breathing (banana pancakes recipe)

It's been hard to get back into the groove of Pittsburgh living since my return at the beginning of the month. The over-stimulation of high speed internet, the constant noise and frustration of city life and a home under the highway, the smells and struggles of living in a working-poor neighborhood where the street never gets plowed because it will just pull up more chunks of concrete and cobblestone, the lack of structure, the demand for structure. Plus, my office chair just isn't as comfortable as the one in my old studio at the Vermont Studio Center (poor me, I know). There have been so many positive changes that have happened not only since this past summer, but in the two weeks since I've been home, but it can be difficult to keep that all in perspective, to prioritize time affectively, and to stay focused on the real goals in life.

Today, however, the sun was out. Those who live in the Southwest may not take their sunshine for granted, but I sometimes feel that those in New England do. It may be more grey there in the winter than in the summer, but it's a beautiful part of the world, and the sun is out more often than not, that cold blue winter sky that reminds you you're on Earth, that feels so warm in contrast to the frosty snap of wind on your nose. The sun is a brief relieve that we in Pittsburgh so rarely get. Today, however, was cold enough to bring out the sun, and I was sure to make the most of it.

E. and I went for a cross-country ski adventure in Frick Park, taking advantage of the small amount of snow we received the past two days. I would never tell my poor Bostonian friends and family (except here, publicly, where I can't be assaulted), but I am a bit jealous of all their snow. The grass is always whiter, I know, and I really do feel bad that they are trapped with inoperable public transit and limitless snowbanks that make driving perilous. That said, I will probably never get to use my snowshoes in the Pittsburgh area, and the inch of snow we have here now practically peeled off the grass with my skis like lint from a sweater with masking tape. On the hiking trails was a bit easier, since a lot of the snow was packed down. I had picked up my skis, boots, and poles last year at REI's winter garage sale for about $45 total, after I dislocated my shoulder and needed something active to do besides boxing or cycling. They were pretty much new, so they are a lot faster than E.'s old skis he bought off Craigslist. I found myself slowing down a lot (or attempting to) so that I wouldn't run him over, or being a bit intimidated by the changing elevation that's unavoidable in this area. Harder than that was going up, sliding back if my ski remained on the ground for a second longer than necessary as I waddled uphill. I only fell once, as I attempted to slow down and ran over a stick.

 

But just skiing wasn't enough on a day as refreshing as this. I came home and my poor dog was so lonesome, knowing we had spent a few hours outside without him. He hates the cold, but when the sun is out, everything looks so warm, and the heat from the sun's reflection off the snow comes through the window and I know he thinks it's finally nice out again. So I bundled him in a fleece and we headed into Schenley Park, the woods behind my house. It was such a beautiful day, and we ran and slid through our private trail we'd dug, up to the top of the hill. His paws were cold and he insisted on walking on the sidewalk once we reached the top. Within moments, he was stalling and holding up his paws in pain, the salt having burned wounds into his cold pads. I brushed them off and eventually coerced him to walk with me in the snow, and we went further back into the woods, where the trails were padded with snow and we could run freely (on our leash, of course— we're both prone to running away). It was nice to be out of the house and enjoying the outdoors. I think it's something that's been especially bothersome for me as I sink back into Pittsburgh life. I ran the stairs last night, and have been going to kickboxing, but it's not quite the same as a few hours outside in the fresh air and the tranquility of trees. I've found myself no longer dreaming of Santa Fe every night, but often dreaming of Johnson, VT as well. These are sweet reliefs from the sadder dreams, but when I wake up, I'm filled with a longing I can't shake, for a landscape that brought me such quietude I can't seem to muster in my own environment here.

No blog post is truly complete without a recipe, of course, so here's one which is almost exactly like the one from Vega's site. The only changes is I use All-In-One and they use protein powder, and they use coconut oil and I use Earth Balance. Also, I'm heavy on the cinnamon because it's delicious and really good for you. Among other things, it helps break down sugars and combat inflammation. 

Vegan Banana Boost Pancakes

• 1 large banana, mashed
• 1 tsp vanilla extract
• 1 cup milk of choice (I use unsweetened vanilla almond milk)
• 1 cup gluten-free all-purpose flour (I like Mama's almond flour mix)
• 1 serving Vega One Nutritional Shake Vanilla Chai
• 1 tsp baking powder
• 1 tsp baking soda
• 1/2 tsp cinnamon
• 1 Tbsp Earth Balance (or oil of choice)

Mix together mashed banana, vanilla, and milk in small bowl and set aside. In large bowl, mix flour, shake mix, baking powder, baking soda, and cinnamon. Add banana mixture slowly, and mix until just blended. Add more milk as needed. I added about 1/8 cup milk at the beginning of making pancakes, and as the batter sat as I made the first round, the batter thickened and I added some water. Heat pan on medium heat, add oil to pan, and cook those babies up, flipping once the glorious pancake bubbles appear.

These cakes are sweet enough on their own, from the banana and the stevia in the shake mix, but your topping of choice would only sweeten the deal even more. This recipe fed me well for two mornings.

First day back at the bag

With the sun back in the sky and love in my heart, I was today able to finally get to kickboxing. I knew going into it that I'm not in the shape I once was, that I'm not as strong or as svelt. It's not that I've been scared to go back to class, but there were always excuses — usually decent ones, in my defense, like illness or injury, but also weak ones like not enough time or feeling tired —that I wrongly convinced myself were worth listening to.

But today I set an alarm for an early class so that I'd make it to at least the afternoon class, and made myself go. There weren't very many people there, only 7 plus the instructors. One of the instructors and all the attendees were strangers to me, but I instantly fell into the groove of warming up, smiling through side plank, and feeling thankful for the relief of mere jumping jacks. By the time we got to our first round of jab-cross, I was already tired, but excited to be back at the bag again.

What surprised me was how tired my legs were after the warm-up squats and lung jumps. Typically my legs are incredibly strong and even after an hour round of kickboxing, they're still ready to ride up some Pittsburgh hills or at least take the dog for a long walk. My legs were shaking. When we started kicking, I dug deep into myself and found saved energy even though parts of me wanted to crumble into a ball and lay there for dead.

Between every other round, I ran to my water bottle, my throat dry and desperate for water. "How does everyone feel?" Coach Jenny said as the bell rang after three hard minutes of uppercuts. "Tired!" I shouted back. "Good," she said, "that means you're doing it right."

Strange fact about me: I have a series of situations in which I imagine almost everyone I meet. One of those is in an attack situation. How they'd try to attack me, how I'd counter-attack. I always prided myself on my strength, but moreso my stamina. As class went on, I felt myself losing power like a battery, each punch and kick a bit less powerful, less quick, and each block a bit less accurate. I was disappointed, and again dug deeper to find that person I know I can be, who can fight through pain and come out kicking and punching and screaming. At speed round, I pushed all my pain, all my weakness to the back of my brain and charged at my bag with as much speed and speed and strength as I could muster.

I know I have to keep going to kickboxing class. I want to get back into the shape I was before I dislocated my shoulder. It was over a year ago, but it through my training regimen off so much that it's been difficult to find a new rhythm. I'm thankful I have a place to go that pushes and supports me, and that's always there when I'm ready to dive back in. I look forward to Thursday, and I hope I don't sabotage myself and miss class for some dumb reason like I'm scared of the pain of realizing how weak I am. I already realize that, so the only thing I have to do is face up to it.

Oh Kale Yes!

Today was an incredible 50 degrees out here in Pittsburgh, and the scheduled rain held out, so as soon as I got home from band practice, E. and I pumped up the tires on our road bikes and headed into the park. Days like today help me appreciate owning a road bike, when the weather is too warm to train inside but the trails are still too icy and even the thawed trails are too wet and would be ruined with bike treads. The roads of Schenley park were packed with joggers, walkers, and people napping in their cars. We didn't ride for very long, or very far, because we are both getting over colds and long bouts of inactivity due to a number of variables. But it was nice to spin the legs, get our blood pumping, and breathe some fresh air, even if only for an hour or so.

Getting over injury and sickness is never fun or easy, but the payoff for laying low, daily yoga, and herbal tea comes in the form of quicker recovery to enjoy these beautiful days. I complained a lot and posted a few too many photos of me and my dog in bed, but I'm grateful today for my health.

To celebrate our first bike ride together of 2015, E. made dinner. Crusted barbecue tempeh, raw kale salad, and fried potatoes, paired with some cider from East End Brewing Company, was a great way to end the day.

The dressing for the Kale salad was then used on our dehydrating kale. This recipe is E.'s, adapted from Brad's Raw Kale Chips, using ingredients readily available around the house. These aren't "guilt free" except that no one should feel guilty about eating. They have fat and calories from healthy sources, and are a wonderful snack to satisfy cravings for crunchy, savory treats.

• Raw sunflower seeds, enough to coat the bottom of food processor
• Garlic (whole cloves, 3+ depending on preference)
• Green onions (1-2), hard to taste and therefore optional
• Miso paste (scoop about the size of a ping pong, about 2 Tbsp)
• Peanut butter, natural and crunchy (hefty scoop, a bit more than the miso)
• Lemon juice (2-3 Tbsp)
• Ginger (optional, to taste)
• Water
• Kale, raw and destemmed (however much you have and can put on your dehydrator, probably 3 handfuls or so)

1. Add the sunflower seeds to the bottom of food processor to coat the bottom. Grind up into finest powder possible.
2. Add garlic and green onions. Blend.
3. Next, add the wet ingredients, starting with the miso and peanut butter. Blend again.
4. Add lemon juice, ginger, and water. Water is the magic sauce! It adjusts the dressing consistency. If you add too much, add a bit more PB to bring it back. Blend.
5. Pour dressing on kale and massage it in. The surface area of kale shrinks, so if the dressing is strong, add less dressing because the chips will also be strong.
6. Add kale to dehydrator. Spread out bigger pieces, but if you buy the pre-cut kale on sale at Trader Joes, layer the smaller pieces and "cook" for a bit longer so they become one motherchip. Otherwise, leave the kale alone for 12 hours or so, checking periodically to see how they're doing.

This recipe also works well for beet greens, a great way to make the most of these healthy leafy tops.

Miso Soup for the Soul

I've been sick for the past week, which has manifested in strange ways: my bad back, a splitting headache that lasted for days, runny nose (and other gross expulsions), light-headedness. You know, cold stuff. I've been spending a lot of time at home in bed, actively fighting my innate urge to push through my illness. Every winter, especially since moving to Pittsburgh, I've gotten sick. Each year, I push through my illness and ride my bike in the cold rain or snow, run the Schenley trails, and try to convince my body to stop being so wimpy. Now that I'm self-employed, I have the luxury of creating my own schedule (except for my multiple looming deadlines). I'm trying to use that to my advantage to give my body the time and space needed to relax. It's hard, but luckily since I work from home I can multitask and rest in bed with Cupcake Wars while still doing some light editing.

But, a girl's still gotta eat. I was thinking a lot today about bone broth, because I'm considering having guest bloggers contribute a post once a week, at least for a month, to offer a different perspective or set of knowledge than what's usually presented here. Paleo diets are fairly meat-centric, even though our human predecessors ate much less meat, and I was considering what sort of content I would want a potential paleo contributor to offer. That's yet to be disclosed, kind readers, but in the meantime it also got me thinking about chicken soup, since I'm sick, which was tied in with the bone broth for obvious reasons. But I don't eat chicken! What's a gal to do?

Luckily, I happen to be married to an industrial individual who does not have a head cold. In a matter of minutes, we had miso soup with dried seaweed, spiraled carrots, and sweet potato starch noodles, topped with Sriracha — aka rooster sauce, or "cock sauce" if you are 20 years old — to bring the heat that will hopefully help sweat out this evil being living in my sinuses. Here's some proof:

This soup hit the spot for a cool Pittsburgh evening when I needed something nourishing and satisfying. In case you are wondering about bone broth, however, I did find this nice recipe, which uses burdock root (the bone of vegetables) instead of animal bones. So if a paleo blogger does grace us with some insight and posts a bone broth meal plan or consideration, here's a helpful alternative. 

On Calorie Counters and self policing

As I focus more on nutrition, I try to not get too absorbed in calorie counting. For some people, it's a great method for keeping tabs on how much food one eats and where one stands as far as input/output of energy. For me, I find myself checking in on how much I've burned versus how much I've consumed, which has a lot to do with the apps I've used in the past, and when I see that I'm at a severe deficit, I binge on pizza at 1 a.m. But that isn't all there is to nutrition (in fact, it isn't healthy at all). I'm sure many of you have heard "not all calories are created equal," but how does that transfer into your daily eating habits?

I find that using things like calorie trackers are very similar to using a GPS. If you have no idea where you are or how to get where you want to be, and have no idea how to read maps or the time to focus on learning about best routes, then it's a good tool to get you where you need to be. However, both tools are limited. A GPS doesn't always have the most up-to-date routes, especially in Western Pennsylvania where the roads are constantly under construction and closed off. Even features like Quickest Route, Shortest Route, or No Tolls don't always deliver, and we often end up taking a longer or at least less pleasant route than a local may instruct us to follow, or that we may find on our own by looking at some maps. Further, the more we rely on GPS, the less inclined we are to listen to our own navigational instincts or to pay attention to our surroundings. We are less likely to learn about the roads, routes, and nearby attractions if we stare at the digital screen in front of us, telling us exactly where to go and sternly alerting us when we veer even the slightest off track.

The same goes for calorie counters. If you are at a loss as to how to manage your nutritional information; if you haven't yet learned the skills to know when you are full, hungry, or thirsty; if you don't yet understand how to intuitively know the quality of the food you're eating, then calorie counters are great. I like to use them intermittently to check in on how I'm doing, if I'm about on track with where I ought to be. But when I focus too much on the calorie counters, I start to become more obsessed with this abstract number rather than the actual purpose of monitoring my intake.

Since I can't currently do too much besides some gentle yoga, nutrition is more important right now than I necessarily expected it to be, so I'm thankful for the 90/10 group to motivate me to pay attention rather than fall into a delicious canyon of pizza and beer. Since I'm vegetarian (I did eat fish in Vermont — sorry fishies, as well as ate more dairy than I'm used to — sorry cows), I found this round-up of vegan proteins to be very helpful. A lot of this information is stuff I learned as a teenager, but it's always good to have the reminder that there's more to life than peanut butter and toast, as delicious as it is, or rice and beans, as cheap as it is. The list, published by Greatist, is available here, But I'll let you know what my top 3 favorites are:

• chia seeds
• quinoa
• peanut butter sandwich

Today I had chia seeds and flax seeds on top of my unsweetened greek yogurt, which I then drizzled with a bit of local honey from my neighbor Bee Boy, who is resisting a web presence so he doesn't overwhelm his hives due to an increased demand for the sweet stuff. For lunch was sprouted flourless bread with peanut butter, and for dinner I'll probably make some sort of quinoa dish. These are all vegetarian, and all complete proteins.

When you're well-nourished, eating food you like, and don't feel like you have to police yourself, it's a lot easier to maintain healthy eating habits.

In related news, I spent my time in Vermont eating my fair share of gluten and soy, and didn't have any major sensitivity outbreaks until I returned to Boston and then to Pittsburgh, where I broke out in hives both times. This leads me to believe that my sensitivities are largely stress-related, that stress brings in inflammation, hives, and other discomforts. The gluten and soy are Alka-seltzer tablets to my glass of stress water. Together, they fizz into an eruption.

So the goal, after that interesting experiment founded by my own weakness for fresh baked bread and brownies, is not to completely regulate my food, but to avoid the food that puts me at risk for discomfort, but also avoid stressful situations and mindsets, not letting myself get caught up in unnecessary drama. Instead, I'll try to alleviate situations before they manifest, to deal with things head-on before they become stressful.