I am not a good photographer, I don’t measure everything when I cook, and occasionally I make stuff that tastes. Just. Plain. Bad.

But sometimes I create something in the kitchen that is really tasty and I want to start sharing the recipes with you. Keep in mind they will be mostly, if not all, vegan. Talking to my brother-in-law about his spontaneous bicep rupture because of the statin he’s been taking furthered my resolve to stick to a no-cholesterol diet. Whenever possible, recipes contain whole foods, because that’s my next step in the right direction. Getting rid of processed junk. After that, I conquer the world!

I decided to share this recipe after my 10 year old son licked his bowl clean. Before I conquer the world, I should work on his table manners.

Blurry and taken with my iPhone. I wasn’t lyin’.

Eggplant Chili

Serves 4 to 6

1/2 of a large yellow onion, peeled and diced

2 large eggplants, peeled and diced

1/4 teaspoon minced garlic

1 can diced tomatoes, drained

1 can medium chili beans

4 tbsp Bragg Nutritional Yeast

salt and pepper to taste

3 tbsp chopped basil

2 cups fresh kale (torn into small pieces with center stem removed)

Using NO oil, place the onions in a large saucepan and saute over medium heat. You can add a little water if the onions stick, but you shouldn’t need to. After 8 to 10 minutes, add the tomatoes and garlic. Cook for 2 minutes, then add the eggplant, chili beans, basil, salt, pepper, and Nutritional Yeast. Cover and simmer for a few minutes until the eggplant softens. Add the kale, cover and simmer again for a few minutes until the kale softens.

Enjoy!

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I missed posting yesterday, but I spent over 12 hours of my weekend doing volunteer work for three different committees and/or organizations. Unless you left food on your front porch to be picked up, needed food delivered, or are a special needs kid, I didn’t have time to get to you. Now you should count your blessings.

My husband and I got into an argument tonight. About stuffing. Then we went grocery shopping together, because nothing makes an argument better than going to a crowded store a few days before Thanksgiving and buying the stuffing ingredients over which you just fought.

We have relatives coming in town this weekend, which means I’ve been busy moving boxes and random junk from one room to our bedroom and wishing that I had time to repaint the house from top to bottom. Also, refinish some tables. And floors.

My daughter is a Science Lab assistant at her school and they had to bury a dead fish the other day. She and some other kids sang “Amazing Grace” over the grave.

We toured our daughter’s future high school yesterday. Gulp.

Then I ate so many tortilla chips that my lips felt like I went swimming in the Dead Sea.

I pulled my left glute muscle doing rear step lunges. The exercise looked like this, though I DON’T look like this. But, I did have a 30 lb. dumbbell, so clearly she needs to work out more.

From About.com Exercise

My rear step lunge looks impressive, doesn’t it? It wasn’t. It mostly involved me saying, “Ow!” and holding my left butt cheek a lot. You’re welcome.

A friend and I started a “world tour” of beers at a local bar. On Friday, we visited France, Belgium, and Brooklyn, then I headed to Mexico and she went to Canada. I hate to say that the worst of the lot came from Brooklyn, but I will. Because it did. What’s up with that, Brooklyn? You need to represent!

And now I’m pretty sure you would all like me to go back to volunteering.

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People, please learn from my mistakes.

My husband recently tore a muscle in his leg at our daughter’s basketball practice for the second season in a row. He was showing off, dribbling the ball between his legs and then going up for a dunk, when he felt it tear. Or, he was barely moving. You pick the story that a 41 year old man would tell and run with it.

Because he was hurt and resting, I made the mistake of going to a personal training session by myself the other day. (Before any of my kind commentators say, “OH! She’s always SO broke, yet she goes to a personal trainer” that’s because we pre-paid for it last year before we landed in this financial ditch, thankyouverymuch. I don’t need to tell you that, but I will because that’s just the kind of gal I am.)

When you show up for a couple’s training session as a single you have to do a lot more work, because there is no down time and trainers are mean. Okay, not really. But kind of. On top of that, upon my arrival I tell him about the recent death of my cousin and make the ridiculous statement, “Now, let’s get to work on my cell inflammation!”

So, he puts me on this stair machine that I’m pretty sure is the staircase to hell, except it goes up, and he starts me at a pace that is reserved for people who walk steps for their job. Like professional step walkers. That’s all they do.

I immediately can’t breathe and he is talking to me AS IF I SHOULD REPLY and the only thing I can get out of my mouth is, “I can’t do this!”

His reply? “You ARE doing it.”

Technically, he’s correct. I’m climbing up, now at the forced-rate of two steps at a time, and simultaneously utilizing the side-rails and pulling myself; the entire time thinking I will go careening off the back of the machine, right into the wall.

And I’m breathing – HARD. I wouldn’t even call it breathing; it’s more like desperately trying to force the carbon dioxide from my body before I lose consciousness. All the while, my trainer is standing next to the machine right under my uncontrollably huffing face.

All I can think is, GOOD NIGHT MAN, move away from my breath! But, I don’t have enough air to actually say this to him, and I am sure it’s obvious that I ate Tofurky for lunch, but he stands his ground and I start to think, maybe he can handle it because he’s Scottish. The only other Scottish guy I know could drink pints until he’d vomit all over himself and then start drinking again.

Then I think about how I used to call my trainer the Australian, because I’m ignorant like that. I still don’t even know if he’s Scottish, but I think so because his accent sounds a lot like Shrek.

Then suddenly I was done. Well, after a lot more painful stuff and two more sets on the steps and legs so jelly-like that I seriously considered sliding down the railing to the first floor where I did even more painful stuff, I was done.

Thanks to my constantly-wandering mind and the determination to not have an ambulance called on me, I did it and it felt great.

But, next time I’m bringing my husband and mints.

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Dear Mr. Personal Trainer,

I’m coming in to see you today after six months of, mostly, sitting on my hind end. And, by mostly I mean completely. I understand that you want to know my history and goals, so here goes.

I maintained a normal weight until just after my 26th birthday. Then I got married, had a high-stress career, renovated a house, had a preemie baby and blamed every pound I gained on each of those things. I had no time and no energy.

Then I had another baby and he was um…kind of difficult…even if I had had the time and energy, I would have taken it and put it into making him better, stronger, healthier, smarter and more typical. It turns out that ten years and ten surgeries later I realize that I like him just the way he is, which is sickly, tiny and kind of quirky, but that’s a whole different letter.

How I got here is beside the point; it’s where I want to go that matters. Eight months ago my high cholesterol sent me into the waiting arms of a vegan diet. Now I have a relationship with beans that I never thought possible. Also, my cholesterol dropped 160 points in three months. Without meds. Me and beans? We kind of love each other.

I joined your gym in January and started working out with a trainer and spent hours there each week. But, then the trainer got moved to another position and I got whooping cough, then summer came and that’s my SUPER busy season at the job I love and am passionate about. I had a hard time peeling myself away from my computer screen. And, once again, as I have countless times over the last decade, I fell into a vicious cycle of excuses.

I want this bad. I want good health, a long life and I want to be strong again. I wouldn’t mind if you could throw in some quickness and good balance, but if you could just get me to a point where it’s not a nightmare to get dressed each day, that would be great.

I take Zoloft and Ambien (see aforementioned paragraphs mentioning kids) and I know the anti-anxiety meds aren’t conducive to weight loss, but they also help me sit and watch mindless TV like Wheel of Fortune without grinding my teeth and clenching every muscle in my body. If you asked me whether I wanted to go back to feeling like I was always on the verge of a panic attack or be fat, I would chose the fatness. So, we have to work around that.

I like beer. A lot. I like chocolate. A lot. I also like vegetables and feel strong enough about my health to become a vegan and stick to that completely. But, please don’t ask me to give up beer. Or chocolate. Or coffee.

I would love to run a half marathon someday, but only a half because I think a full marathon is crazy. Plus I have asthma, so I don’t even think full marathons are allowed. Just sayin’. Oh, and I’m 41. FORTY-ONE, which is to say that I feel very middle-aged and if I don’t turn this around FOR REAL this time, I won’t ever do it.

I still have a whole life to live and so many places I want to go and a zillion things I want to do, but I won’t do any of them happily unless I can fix myself and I don’t know how to do that. I want you to help me get to a point where I can stop hating myself.

So, there you go.

No pressure.

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