Recently, both a friend and a family member recommended I watch Forks Over Knives. The documentary is all the rage, I gather, but the premise—that a plant-based (i.e. vegan) diet is The Way—seemed a little off-kilter. So I read the reviews, talked about it to a few people, and added the movie to my queue. But before watching the movie (perhaps we’ll watch it tonight?), I Googled “criticism for Forks Over Knives.” Oh boy. Apparently I wasn’t the only one with questions. And then there was criticism for the criticism, but of course. It was a good old-fashioned food fight, but with data and pixels instead of spoons and mashed potatoes.

So I exchanged emails with family and friends, made more phone calls, and read more reviews. But when I sat down to write out my thoughts on the matter and how it is that I don’t jump on board all these health-food bandwagons—because how could I since there are about a million of them, and besides, I’d probably get a heart attack from all that jumping around—I realized that saying that made me sound like an ignorant fool because how dare I turn up my nose at healthy eating!

So I stopped writing and read more reviews and called my mom and called my husband and called my friend. When I get writer’s constipation, the solution is to talk it out, thanks heavens for phones and the people at the other end of them (though a stuffed animal propped up at the other end of the couch works okay in a pinch).

And then I tried to write again.

I’ve decided that what I have to say is stupid and pointless because Barbara Kingsolver has said it all already and I’m not nearly as eloquent as she is, but I’m getting a little bored with writing about bickering kids and yarn, so here goes.

Our society is up to its eyeballs in Dietary Rules of Law—Atkins! Raw! Local! South Beach! Zone! Low-calorie! Blood type! Macrobiotic! Organic! Fat-free! Whole Grain!—so that half the time we have no clue which way is up. I have a hunch that ours is a first-world problem, this figuring out what to eat. It’s a problem born of our over-abundance, endless opportunities, and an over-inflated sense of self-importance and control. And since we lack a connection to our food sources and can get away with ignoring the ebb and flow of the seasons, we resort to self-imposed food laws for parameters.

These laws come at us via books, movies, magazines, blogs, etc, all of which are full of pulpit-pounding experts eagerly trying to enlighten us as to how we’re slowing killing ourselves by eating—pick one—baked potatoes, butter, scrambled eggs, chocolate chip cookies, cooked spinach, raw milk, and without chopsticks.

I admit it stresses me out a little, because being told that I’M KILLING MYSELF WITH MY LUNCH is slightly stressful.

But back to this movie (which I haven’t seen yet so this is kind of ridiculous). I hear that these experts recommend a diet packed full with fresh vegetables. This sounds incredibly noble and good and right, but aren’t there other problems (i.e. fossil fuels) associated with shipping in out-of-season veggies and fruits? (But hey, with 70 degree temps in February, we may soon be able to grow kale year round!) Nothing stands in isolation—there are so many factors to take into consideration when discussing health and well-being. And eating a certain way to solve all our problems has problems of its own.

I know for a fact that I don’t have all the answers, and I have a hunch that no one else does either. (On both accounts, I’m sorry.) There are as many ways to eat as there are to raise kids as there are to grow food as there are to become educated as there are to make art, etc. and thank goodness. This fabulous variety is what makes the world beautiful and scary and exhilarating.

And this is the reason I’m hesitant to jump on bandwagons (except for ones I build myself).

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a movie I need to watch.

This same time, years previous: cream scones, Molly’s Marmalade Cake, foods I’ve never told you about, part three

My husband and I were up too late planning a surprise for the children, and then I couldn’t sleep because I kept dreaming about the surprise. Also, I couldn’t sleep because a wicked fever blister was in the process of breaking out on my lip. I kept bumping it in my sleep, jolting myself awake with pain every single time, and then I started having nightmarish visions in which my whole face turned into one violent blister. So I woke up tired.

But not cranky tired, like how I woke up yesterday morning, thanks to a certain little boy who climbed into bed with me while I was in the middle of a fabulous dream, a dream in which I discovered that the local liquor store had a pie shop in the back—(I was stunned and thrilled and then all day long, when I was fully awake, I kept musing over this fascinating revelation) (they had home canned green beans, too)—and woke me up. He was chattering to himself under his breath, and when I overheard, “I love waking up to birds singing,” my irritation almost melted, but it wasn’t until I went downstairs, stomped around while making my coffee, lectured my little bird-loving angel, and barked at my husband several times, only then was I finally able to get over my rude awakening.

I have no idea how I survived a decade of interrupted sleep. It must’ve been the oxytocin.

My husband took my son to work with him this morning. My husband (and fellow workers) are tearing down a house that burned, getting ready to rebuild, and it’s the sort of thing that my son can actually help out with. He wore my husband’s carhartt jacket and work boots. The jacket was a little big; the boots fit.

The remaining children and I ate our granola and then huddled around the fire. I read a bunch of books to them, and they worked on their math problems (one child suffered an extended hissy fit), and I knitted.

I started another hat yesterday morning. I got the whole thing going all by myself, no twisting or dropped stitches (yet). I am immensely satisfied. I have high hopes of not being A Lost Knitting Cause.

While the kids went upstairs to play and fight (they never did figure out which), I took notes on potential Kitchen Chronicles, planned a few meals, scrubbed potatoes, and got some food—chicken broth, spinach, corn—out of the freezer to thaw.

Lunch was sandwiches and applesauce. There’s nothing sweet in the house, so I had my afternoon coffee all by itself.

I’ve been meaning to tell you about this oatmeal that I’ve been eating most mornings (though not today—today was granola, remember?), but I never know what to say about it so I don’t say anything. Which isn’t really fair because there’s a good chance you might enjoy it as much as I do, even though it’s low-key, like my morning.

I already have a steel-cut oatmeal recipe in the index but this one is better. The oats get toasted in butter, which adds all sorts of flavor, and I cut back on the water, eliminating any hint of gummy. The end result is an oatmeal that is chewy and nutty, and utterly satisfying.

Toasted Steel-Cut Oatmeal
Inspired by Sarah of Recipes for a Postmodern Planet and Kim Boyce, author of Good to the Grain

Nuts, berries, and maple sugar are optional, but lovely.

1 cup steel-cut oats
1 tablespoon butter
3 cups water
½ teaspoon salt

Melt the butter in a saucepan. Add the oats and stir for several minutes, or until the oats are fragrant and a couple shades darker. Add the water and salt and stir to combine. Bring to a boil and stir well before reducing the heat to low and lidding the pan. Simmer for 20-30 minutes, or until the liquid is absorbed and the oats are chewy-tender.

This same time, years previous: the case of the whomping shovel

*sunbathing: they were all kicked out of the house while I had my writing group, so they spread out the beach towels, played card games, and got sunburned
*rock-a-bye baby
*a rag swing
*braids: she’s finally letting me do something with her hair! Now if I could just convince her to let me trim it…
*cat on chair
*chocolate chip cookies
*Calvin and Hobbs and some afternoon zzzs
*completed and imperfect: I have a lot to learn
*he made us tea and then shrink-wrapped it so it would stay warm
*caramelized sprouts: I ate them with lots of lemon, feta, and some brown rice
*Valentine’s Day sweetness, savored

This same time, years previous: homemade Twix bars, dulce de leche coffee, blueberry cornmeal muffins, the morning after