I Built My Life on Sugar

diana_5yrbI left Korea for the States at the age of four. Exhibit A.  A plump little girl in Seoul, the ice cream bar a wicked taste of the life that would one day dissolve.  I’ve grown to appreciate how my mother managed to turn out the Korean food that is so time-consuming while juggling the challenges of survival and work as a tenderfoot habitant of NYC.  She did what she could while borrowing from the convenience that processed foods in America offered her family.  I don’t know where I’d be if it weren’t for her traditional cooking because the rest of my diet as a kid into my working years can be summed up by the gelato.

Kids are no strangers to sweets but sugar, in the full spectrum of its creative forms, defined my diurnal fare.  I grew up on the attractive boxes of sucrose called cereal.  A packed favorite for school trips was toasted Wonder bread, center soft with butter, scintillating with white sugar.  Campbell’s alphabet soup and canned vegetables fortified my childhood development.  My beloved Lemon Creme from the donut shop on the corner of Broadway and Elmhurst was a regular affair, right along with the Mint Chocolate Chip cup from Baskin Robbins across the street.  In junior high, my best friend and I enjoyed our daily breakfast of Lipton iced tea and Doritos from the commissary next to school.  Ice cream was a sure bet after lunch.  I took to baking, which meant following nice friendly recipes from Hines and Crocker.  Voilà!  Jello and chocolate pudding too, really just powder confectionery, transmuted so pleasingly out of the box.  In high school, friends and I would vault out of our subway car at Grand Central to grab the Mars Bar off the newspaper stand, throw fifty cents down, and dive back in while the rest of us held a death-grip against the closing doors.

Then my parents started a deli.

Everything in the store was packaged or processed, embalmed or denatured.  The princess of the castle had carte blanche over it all, the Kit Kat, Häagen Dazs, Boars Head ham.  One afternoon, at the same friend’s house, I polished a half gallon of ice cream all by my happy self.  May have been on the heels of the TV dinner, our comforting after-school ritual.  If you’re tiring of the drill, imagine how my liver felt.  I haven’t even touched on my helpless relationship with caffeine, wheat, and dairy.

Fast-forward to my 20s, so as not to belabor the point.  Life was work, food an afterthought; mealtime but a nuisance to hurdle as efficiently as possible.  I was sprinting towards my Master’s in education and teaching full-time, studying and planning in my school office until 11 pm.  Stouffer’s, sandwiches, the saccharine shake Ensure pulled me through.  Come lunch, I was downing something mindlessly with one hand while writing with the other.  If only I’d realized my headstone wasn’t going to read Most Fastidious Composer of Individualized Education Plans.  I managed to stay one productive individual. But vitality, strength, wholeness, joy characterized nothing of my life.  I was swallowing stuff just to be able to exist.  I wasn’t living.  A nutritional X-Ray would’ve turned up an uncanny replica of Tim Burton’s Corpse Bride.

Can’t quite say if my body was attempting a rational conversation with me or screaming insanity but a host of ills naturally hit.  Pains, crippling insomnia, visible inflammation, severe weight loss, acne any medical publisher would have scrambled to capture in the Journal.  You know when someone bears a glaring deformity and you try not to gawk but find yourself gaping?  Well, I was such the show that the owner of the dry cleaner’s I was trying out one day didn’t even feign looking away.  In flagrant disregard for basic etiquette, she gasped her greeting, “Have you been to the hospital?!”  In hindsight, I find it remarkable I’d held out so long.  Yes, my comrades in the dedicated consumption of glucose are still breathing.  But knowing what I finally do about differing constitutions and our predisposed weaknesses, I see that my body was one that could not afford a day-in, day-out diet of unpronounceables.

The time I’d saved in feeding myself right, I ended up spending generously at the doctor’s.  I was put on the merry-go-round of -ologists who each tried hard to name the -itis while examining the body part parceled out under their specialty.  Who, coming up short but well-meaning, then dispensed drugs that provided the illusion that I was better.  No, no one I had trusted for curative expertise had connected the dots, thought the symptoms had anything to do with one another.  Years later I saw it didn’t matter what we called the malady.  My body had given out.  All systems were not go and each repository was simply closing shop.

What I put in my mouth becomes my very flesh and blood and life force.  And for some mystifying reason, I had dismembered food from my essence, entirely missed the requisite role food played in my health.  When I had drained my reserves, I turned to professionals to unmask the phantom and welcomed the opiates that silenced the indications that my body had something to say.  I know thorough, keen doctors who look at the whole patient, and drugs are required in some circumstances.  But not one physician who had my eager concession at the time ever asked about the quality of my diet and lifestyle.

Sometime after the troubles surfaced, I was having dinner with an old friend who diplomatically suggested that what I was eating was affecting me.  I promptly dismissed the notion.  She went on to share a bit about the world of complementary medicine and natural health care she recently had left Corporate America for.  All quite strange (then), but the seed had been planted.

A denizen of California not long later, I stumbled on a book at Barnes and Noble about health and the pleasures of eating.  The stomach opens up more readily to accept what’s coming when we are sitting.  I went around in awe of God the next several days.  We were made to enjoy our food.  The unhurried posture didn’t just embody a social dimension of eating.  It disclosed a physiological logic.  It would be yet some more years before I appreciated the profundity of relaxing over meals but the conventional wisdom even in its simple light was something I had been too impatient to heed.  It slowly sank in.  I-was-meant-to-stop-and-enjoy-my-food-and-doing so-was-good-for-me.  This epiphany marked the genesis of my holistic perspective on the body, the lovely play between the seen and unseen.  I was a whole being, with nothing random in her design.

For over a quarter of a century, I had built my body out of contrivances from labs and factories.  I am only grateful to have made it to tell about it.  I have been learning how to live, which for me meant discovering how to eat.  To choose simple, untampered offerings of earth’s bounty to rejuvenate impaired tissue, clean blood, restore cellular function, nourish the one frame I have been given.  This awareness became peremptory with the marvel of a beautiful, healthy boy in my arms.  The cooking has been an answer to the solemn charge that I do justice to his little body.  My labor of love in the kitchen for family and friends is my worship.  Very much the way one develops a spiritual appetite, I’ve progressively come to enjoy the freedom to choose the foods that are best for me.  I can’t remember the last time I had ice cream.  It’s all good, because I’ve consumed enough for two lifetimes.  This cat’s holding on to her three lives.  Renewal.  Strength.  Balance.  I’ll take ’em.  They might not end with food, but certainly start with it.

What I offer you at my holistic table is the harvest of understanding reaped from these years of struggle and breakthrough in health and study.  I hope you are blessed.

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I regret being unable to build this site as planned. Homeschool is full under way and exciting things keep me on the Holistic Journey. I will post as school breaks allow, but am checking comments and responding to readers regularly.  I hope the Table I’ve laid out for you, a labor of love, serves as a useful reference.

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12 thoughts on “I Built My Life on Sugar

  1. I’m glad you brought my attention to this. While reading, all I could hear is my big brother’s voice echoing “I told you so”. I have stopped eating so much sweets as I used to but I still have problems eating on time and eating right. Try being under 25 and weighing 90lbs! (yep- the horror!). I’m not worried right now, the only thing that used to scare me was what if I got sick, would I die, cause I’d have nothing to lose (in pounds I mean- lol). It really is no joking matter. I am especially happy that you have learnt to do better, we are indeed what we eat, and as one radio show host constantly reminds “we dig our graves with out teeth” when we don’t eat right. As for me too, I am on medication for stomach issues (thankfully no ulcers) but again, I am little rebel- I sometimes refuse to take them. I have changed my diet like the doctor ordered- no more acidic juices etc but still my biggest problem is the timing for I eat when I feel like. In short, I can’t force myself to eat if I don’t feel like it. I used to be hungry, stay hungry, and then I didn’t feel hungry anymore- that’s terrible I know, I have had to catch myself when doing the same thing you used to do- muti-task while eating. Come to think of it, I even did that today, while blogging, I was eating and halfway through lost my appetite while my appetite to see other posts grew 🙂 I know discipline is key. I am so happy for you, glad that you have become wiser and are empowering others.

    • Carmen, let me know if you got the How To Eat page….I have technical trouble sometimes. If you didn’t, chk your delivery settings…Xoxoxoxo,
      Diana

      • Hi Diana. How are you? Thanks for following up. I’ve bookmarked the page. I know it will take some time but some of the things I do but irregularly. I’ve tried snacking on nuts e.g. almonds or peanuts in-between meals instead of drinking. My main problem is not waiting until my stomach hurts to go eat. Talk soon.
        Carmen

  2. Fantastic! If I knew then what I know about nutrition I could have avoided over 20 years of acne. That any of us can function with so much junk wearing on our system is a testament to the strength of the human body. Great new site!

  3. I was lucky enough to spend a few weeks in Tuscany earlier this year and was astonished to see the respect given to good food, how it is grown, prepared, packaged, sold and eaten. Proud, well dressed men and women in specialty food stores would earnestly talk with their customers about the merits of one olive oil over another, or would carefully hand over slices of delicately flavored salami for tasting. Waiters would risk the loss of their tip by refusing to serve me a cappuccino after dinner (it’s just not done). The woman making and selling her own pasta invited us in to see how she makes ravioli. I could go on but somewhere along the way, on this side of the Atlantic, we have lost our respect for food and all that it signifies.

    • I didn’t communicate myself clearly. Knowing you’re bursting with commentary on most things you read, I’d meant you can leave feedback on Pitchford’s book here. But thanks for this glimpse into how it is in other parts of the world where food isn’t mindless routine and is in fact a sacred joy. You point out the important areas of food production and preparation. The preparation is where we are careless, at least in the States, in the rush of postmodern living and where we lose the integrity of the nutrients and food energy. I long since gave up on cookbooks and the Food Network (when we had a working TV). They have no idea what foods serve one another and are pandering to taste buds. Are there less packaged (as in processed) foods in Italy? It is mystifying, how pregnant women and mothers – those who should realize they are literally growing a human being with what they put in their own mouth – are clueless as to why their kids are born with eczema and develop rashes. But I am reminded that any knowledge this blog can offer was borne out of my folly.

  4. Italian food is generally less processed. There is also no special children’s menu containing junk food items. Italian restaurants welcome children and are happy to provide smaller portions of adult meals. Personally, my rule of thumb is that I don’t eat anything unless it looks like something recognizable e.g. I don’t eat the red stuff unless I can see pieces of carrot. My knowledge is also borne out of folly. My parents suffered from the general illusion, much shared after the Second World War in England, that meat, fish and dairy were required in abundance to make up for protein deficiencies.

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