On Replacements (Or, That Time I Almost Blew Up My Food Processor)

This could be about how The Replacements totally reunited in Canada, which I'm very, very excited about. I used to put Tim, into my stereo in college and write for hours. Still, I've got to be honest with you: this isn't about Paul Westerberg so much as it's about another recipe. I know. But that's all I've got right now, and this totally justifies my recent need to Instagram everything I cook. So.

Part of transitioning to a vegan lifestyle is bidding adieu to quite a few delicious things that just don't make the cut anymore. If you're shifting your eating habits for purely or predominately ethical reasons, this is probably less difficult than if you're someone like me who's just looking for the right way to start making better life choices after realizing that still eating the last piece of cake even though you'd just dropped it on the floor was actually a rock bottom moment (not a hypothetical example so much as a thing I actually did six years ago - like I said here, impulse control).

We can all agree that not being able to eat a thing that is awesome sucks. As such, in this world of food allergies and alternative lifestyles, all sorts of enterprising folks have devised a number of, "replacements," for the things that we have to/chose to give up.

Now, I have no illusions about any of these substitutes being, "just like the real thing." Bacon is bacon, crispy tempeh strips are crispy tempeh strips. While they can serve the same purpose in a meal, they are not the same thing and never will be. Once you accept this, you will live a happier life of realistic expectations where you can enjoy things for what they are and not what you wish they were. I know. Next, I'll be posting about how to achieve world peace.

So please know, in your heart of hearts, that when you read and/or execute this recipe I'm about to share for raw, vegan, "Nutella," you will not be getting Nutella. In fact, the only reasons I'm attaching that brand to it are, A) that's how the original source labeled it, and B) it provides some context for how to use it. Do not prepare your senses for an experience they are not about to have.

On Breakfast (Or, Trying Not to Fail at My Own Life Plans)

So here's a thing that is true: breakfast is good for you.

I know. Stop the presses.

Now, whether or not breakfast is, "the most important meal of the day," as our parents and most after school programming would suggest, apparently remains to be seen. There are studies and articles and what have you floating around out there making the case for lunch and/or dinner. My non-scientific opinion is that all three meals are kind of equally important, as skipping any of them tends to throw life out of whack and/or send me spinning into a blind rage.

And yet...

It's just so easy to miss breakfast. Even now, when I'm fully aware of the consequences, it's one of the first parts of my morning routine to get cut when I'm bargaining for extra minutes of sleep. I don't know what it is - the proximity of the meal to what's often the most rushed part of the day, the popular idea that breakfast is really just first dessert (why did we even let Pop-Tarts become a thing?)(because they're disturbingly delicious slabs of sugar and chemicals, damn them)(triple parenthetical), the government (I needed a third thing) - but, despite my best intentions, I am a serial cereal skipper (I know, I'm so sorry - not sorry enough to delete it, but still).

Well, no longer. I am making this bold declaration to the universe, the cyberverse, and the 4ish people I can mostly guarantee will at least sort of skim this post: I will make breakfast a legitimate priority. And I don't mean I'm going to have a cup of tea and merrily skip off to start my day, satisfied that I have achieved my goal. Simply throwing something into the morning meal time slot will not necessarily allow you to reap the benefits of being a breakfast eater. Am I saying ditch your coffee and never look at a donut again? No. Donuts are amazing. And I mean, I'm not at all fond of coffee, but I don't begrudge you the right to enjoy it.

What I am saying is that, occasional indulgences aside, it's just as important to consider the nutritional value of the first meal of the day as it is the second and third. Because again, in a world full of pastries and pancakes and something called toaster strudel (again, why did we even...?), it's so easy to forget that you're meant to start most days with purpose, and that maybe pouring a bag of refined sugar onto your soul isn't necessarily going to be conducive to optimal brain function.

Now, does this mean we all need to resign ourselves to eating nutritionally enriched cardboard and living lives of sadness? No. Promise. What I'm reminding myself, as much as anyone else, is that crafting a dish that is both functional and phenomenal in the morning is neither impossible nor complicated. Exhibit A after the jump.

On My Tattoo (Or, Hey Guys, I Got a Tattoo)

So I got a tattoo a few months ago.

I wasn't planning on saying anything about it, as it was something that I did for myself and shouting about it on the internet right after would've felt like cheapening the moment somehow. However, enough time has passed (3 real life months is basically the same as 3 cyber years) and enough people have noticed it to make me realize that I really need to get better at telling this story.

So.

I got a tattoo a few months ago. Truth be told, it's not something I ever thought I'd do - not because of a problem with tattoos, but because of the permanence of it all. If you're going to have something etched onto your body, I feel like you've really got to be committed. Emotionally, I totally was. I knew exactly why I wanted to do it and what I wanted it to mean. The problem was settling on a visual that would represent that. Several times, I thought I had it, and I'd walk around all smug and satisfied and bad-ass-here-we-go until my old friend doubt would show up and ruin the party.

And here's the thing - I'm all about telling doubt to frak off, because otherwise I wouldn't get anything done. Ever. However, there are exceptions to just about every rule, and if your brain is saying, "Don't put that on yourself forever, idiot," maybe pay attention.

This went on for years - actual years - past my initial, "Maybe I'll get a tattoo...," thought, until I settled into a happy holding pattern of, "Yup, maybe I will, but really probably never..."

Then a thing happened.

At the beginning of May, I went to see Jen Kirkman at the Punch Line. She was doing a stand-up set followed by a book signing, and I was totally on board for all of that. I went alone, because I accepted long ago that while there would be plenty of things in life I'd be able to do with other people, sometimes I'd be the only one who wanted to go somewhere or do something. Flying solo is way preferable to missing out. However, there were two drawbacks to being by myself that evening: 1) There was nobody to watch my tea (shut up, it was cold and I don't drink alone) when I had to go to the bathroom, and very special episodes of every show I watched growing up told me this would lead to me being roofied (I wasn't). 2) I had no wingman to make sure I didn't make an ass of myself during the signing.

'Cause listen, I've had the honor and pleasure of attending several events that have given me the opportunity to meet people I think are awesome, and I love it. There's something kind of soul satisfying about looking someone who's given you a gift through a performance or a book or what have you in the eye and saying, "Thank you for making this thing that inspired me or helped me or just made me happy, and thank you for being here right now and signing this or taking this picture or whatever." The challenge is making those words come out of my mouth. I'm a human being. A shy, nervous, overthinker of a human being.

So while I stood there after the show, first in line (my secret signing nightmare), waiting and wishing I hadn't insisted on finishing that second tea, I decided that the exchange would go one of two ways: A) I would say, "Great show," and, "Thank you!" and then hope that my hands would stop shaking by the time I got to my bus stop, or B) I would say both of those things, then go the extra mile and mention that I'd really enjoyed her episode of The JV Club podcast, because I had.

I've spent so much of my life as an option A girl - safe but scared. That night, emboldened by nothing but green tea, I decided to go with B. And it went well. I left giddy, happy with the exchange and proud of myself for opening my mouth and saying words. A year ago, I wouldn't have done that. A year ago, I would've gotten dry-mouthed and tongue-tied and died a little because that's what any kind of social situation with strangers does to all of us (right?!?!?). Personal. Growth.

By the time I got on my bus, I knew. I knew what I wanted my tattoo to be. It was so clear, so beyond doubt, that it didn't even pop into my head as, "I think this is what I'll do," so much as, "This is it, duh."

The aforementioned JV Club podcast (which I posted about here), hosted by Janet Varney and full of hilarity, sincerity, and everything in between, has been kind of a game changer for me in the best of ways. It's so honest and thought-provoking and therapeutic that my actual therapist is pretty much giving me bonus points for being a listener (disclaimer: I don't think therapists actually give you points). Without going into extreme detail, the podcast has helped me move past so many of the roadblocks I put up in my own life through the simple act of helping me feel like I'm not alone, and I'm a better person for it. Not only that, I feel motivated to keep becoming a better person.

It's kind of funny and awesome that someone who's peripherally been a player in my life for years - Janet's been involved in a bunch of stuff that I'm a fan of and, along with Cole Stratton and David Owen, co-founded SF Sketchfest, which is pretty much Second Christmas - now feels kind of like a friend that I hang out with via headphones for an hour a week and just don't talk to. The conversations on the podcast are that casual and natural and fantastic.

I got the JV Club logo tattooed on my left wrist on May 19th by Kevin at Cold Steel. It's there to remind me that I make an active choice every single day to not be the frightened, angry person I was for so long. It's there to remind me that I am capable of getting through bad days (or months, or years), because they're still going to happen. It's also there to remind me that I have a gorgeous, phenomenal life full of love and light and pure joy that will just keep getting better if I get out of my own way. Once it was on my wrist, I knew I'd made the right call, because it felt like it always should have been there.

So I guess, what I'm trying to say is thanks, doubt. You helped me hold out for something pretty rad this time.

Side note: The day I got my tattoo also happened to be Bay to Breakers here in SF. If you're a runner, it's a race. If you're most of the city, it's a reason to put on a spandex tiger costume and start drinking in the street at 10 AM. Every year, I say I'm going to stay in the house all day, and every year, I manage to forget and make plans. However, the staff at the shop seemed to genuinely appreciate that I was sober and that my best friend, who accompanied me, did not have a tambourine.

Public Service Announcement: You can't donate blood for a year after getting a tattoo. I had a mini-crisis of conscience when I looked this up, because I'm a regular donor (and an in-demand type O donor, which just made it worse) and suddenly felt wildly selfish. I eased my guilt (a little) by donating a couple days before my appointment, and while it's maybe ill-advised to schedule back-to-back activities that result in blood loss, it all worked out. Consider donating in my stead and visit your local blood bank today.

When my best buddy Jennie got her tattoo a few years ago, I was on hand (literally - she's a hand holder) for the experience, and she was always adamant about returning the favor. I am not a hand holder, however, so she took my phone and documented the occasion. Pics after the jump.

On Never Being Wrong (Or, The First Time I Saw Myself)

Note: This is...a reminder to myself, I suppose. For when I forget. But it's a worthy exercise, one I encourage you to try, if you've stumbled across this. Which is perhaps my way of apologizing in advance for writing a thing all about myself. Even if that apology kind of stomps on my point a bit. Look, whatever, shut up and read if you're going to.

Oh wait, also: I use the term, "punch people in the face," very figuratively. I'm actually super against that.

Last week, I was asked a question that I've never been asked before. I answered, of course, as I am wont to do in such situations, but I was tired and inarticulate and I haven't been able to let it go, because it's kind of a big deal.

I was asked how I see myself.

Who am I, in my own eyes?

Not too long ago, I would've lied - not to the friend who asked me, but to myself. That's because not too long ago, I didn't see myself as anything much. Tethered to the invisible and inaudible but somehow ever present judgments of the world around me, I allowed myself to become so much...less. Less than what? Less than all.

Weak.
Afraid.
Worse than a failure, because to fail you have to try.
In a word, inferior.

I don't credit myself, not really - even when something positive comes out, it's tempered by at least two negatives, lest I be thought of as arrogant or narcissistic or, worst of all, wrong. Successes - creative, social, or otherwise - were short-lived and seldom fully enjoyed because surely everyone was one step away from figuring out that it was a fluke and I was terrible.

I know, right? Totally surprising that I was so angry and sad all the time.

Then everything changed.

No. Sorry, it did not change.

I changed it.

There was no big inciting incident, no lightning bolt, no sign. There was just a day - a bad day, the end of a chain of increasingly worse days. And at the end of that bad day, as I went to bed, more excited to tune out the world for a few hours than I was to engage with it, it became very clear to me that things could not keep going the way they were. I could not keep going. So I made the clearest, most focused decision of my entire life: I decided that the next day was going to be awesome.

It wasn't going to be awesome because of my job, or my house, or because I wasn't going to miss my bus. It was going to be awesome because of me.

I am not weak.
I am not inferior.
I am a fucking force of nature and I absolutely refuse to be anything less.

I used to call myself an, "aspiring writer," because it felt like I didn't deserve to drop the qualifier. I'm not published, I have no agent, my name isn't Ernest Hemingway. But you know what? I don't need anybody's permission to put pen to paper, and Hemingway is dead, so I'm a writer. That is a part of who I am.

I used to be afraid of not mattering, of being forgotten, lost to time because I didn't make enough of myself. Only recently have I figured out that there is no such thing as not mattering. Gandhi and Washington and Eleanor Roosevelt all had mothers and fathers and friends and teachers that touched them in some way, that pushed them to be the people they were, and we may never know their names but they did, and so a ripple was made in all space and time that will never stop circling out. There are people who have given me thoughts and pieces and words that I will never forget, long after they are gone, and that has all become a part of me. There are people I know now who will most definitely outlive me, and that isn't morbid, it's thrilling, because they will take whatever I have given them and put it together with parts of themselves and pass it on and it will never stop. Isn't that crazy and beautiful and too rad for words? That is a part of who I am.

I am an empathic sufferer but I am also a celebrator, because with all the world's pain comes all of its joy. I try to see people, not for who I want them to be or how I wish they were not, but for who they are. Because people are amazing - gorgeous and exciting and capable of so much, and maybe seeing that makes it all the more heartbreaking when some of them go wrong, but that's a price I'm willing to pay, because I don't want to turn away, not when the tradeoff is walking up to someone who believes themselves invisible and saying, "I see you." I could spend the rest of my days punching people in the face with their own excellence and be happy. That is a part of who I am.

I am a seeker, a creator, an adventurer. I want to go everywhere and feel everything. I want to find words that have never been read and sights that have never been seen and then I want to come back and show everyone because what's the point of having all of that if you can't share it? I never want to stand still. That is a part of who I am.

I want to live as fiercely as a person can, not so that I'll burn out quicker, but so I don't waste any opportunity to burn as brightly as I am able to. That is a part of who I am.

I want to be ancient and ageless and forever myself.

I am me.

And I am awesome.

And it is my choice, my personal mandate.

There is no such thing as being wrong.

On Summer (Or, That Time I Grossed Everyone Out With All of the Feelings)

Warning: This post is full of a ridiculous amount of feelings. Utterly sincere feelings, but still. Sorry. But not really, because I still did it.

I've been with my company for fifteen years.

"But CDog, you're 26. You've said so. A bunch. Pretty sure."

Very astute, dear reader. Here's a little backstory.

I work for a non-profit musical theatre company for kids. Back in my youth, I spent two years as a camper at one of their summer sessions. I worked for them every summer after that, starting as a volunteer and rising through the ranks before assuming my current position as office manager/writer/drama teacher.

So. I've been with my company for fifteen years - more than half my life - and that's the kind of thing that lends itself to wild nostalgia almost every day. A couple weeks ago, I was at the wedding of a friend who was once my camp counselor. I met the girl who would become my best friend at my first employee training day. Some of the first kids I taught just graduated from college. Kids who were the youngest when I was in my early teens are now my coworkers in the summer.

It's a funny thing, when the quiet wee six year-old who used to tug on your shirt to ask you a question is suddenly your height and teaching alongside you.  You feel old, even though you know that you are not, but they're talking about SAT scores and college applications and weren't they just eight years-old yesterday and I guess it was nine years ago that you were thinking about the same things not, "a couple," like you've been telling yourself.

It's gross, and it's jarring, and it's awesome. I've gone to a lot of high school shows over the years to support my friends and former students, and I totally get the parents who slap, "My Kid Is A (Insert Accomplishment Here)," bumper stickers all over their lives, because all I want to do is stand in the lobby after, pointing at headshots and shouting, "I know them! Did you see what they just did? Aren't you proud?"

Because I am. That's what really hit me as I sat in the theatre of a high school I didn't go to last spring, waiting for the lights to go down for a musical I was seeing for an unprecedented second time: I am so, so proud. I'm proud to know all of the people I have met through what I do - older, younger, and everything in between. I'm proud of the people they are, the people they're choosing to become, and of the fact that I get to count them as friends.

I say I've been with my company for fifteen years, and technically that's true - I never stopped contributing in some capacity. However, there were two summers where I did not work because I was at my Grown-Up Job - the one I didn't really want but reality (particularly the need for health insurance) was forcing me to keep. As bad as things felt sitting at that desk during the year, it was a thousand times worse during those summer months, knowing that just across the bridge there was magic happening and that I couldn't be a part of it. I couldn't even visit. I lied to my office manager to get time off so I could at least go to the performances, passing them off as family functions.

There is no justification for my dishonesty - I don't encourage it. But you know what? I was going to see people I'd grown up with, and watched grow up. People who had seen me at my best and my worst and never judged me, never failed to have my back. People who have helped shape me and who still manage to make me better.

Sounds like family to me.

To every camper, coworker, friend, family member: All these words didn't really do it justice, but I am so, so happy to know you.

- CDog

On My Veganniversary (Or, Lots of Made Up Words)

It's my 3 year veganniversary.

I know, because I officially became a vegan the day after the series finale of Lost. Let me clarify by saying that these two events were unrelated, though a part of me would very much like to pretend that I was so bereft without The Island that I somehow couldn't face the prospect of continuing to consume animal products. It's pure coincidence, but ended up being a handy way of remembering when my adventure began.

My path to veganity (which isn't a real word so much as a term that I appropriated from Scott Pilgrim) was both simple and complicated. I didn't make the change for reasons of animal rights, though I have nothing but respect for people who do. It's certainly an added bonus that I've adopted a lifestyle that is kinder to my furry and feathered friends, but I wouldn't want to accept credit where it is not due.

I became a vegan because I needed to change the way I was living my life.

Look, before we go any further, I'm about to get into some self-image stuff, and that's tricky. If you are friend or foe or stranger, understand that I am neither expert nor authority. If I were, "M.D." would follow my name and you'd be reading this in a book that would probably feature a picture of me surrounded by puppies dressed as vegetables or something because taking serious posed photographs makes me very uncomfortable. I'm not commenting on anybody's feelings or lifestyles but my own. So.

I'm an emotional eater with a side of food-related impulse control. I know, I know. Stop bragging. But it's true. As a sensitive, highly anxious kid, I learned pretty early on that food brought a lot of sensory satisfaction and afforded me a feeling of control that I didn't seem to have over other things in my life. I never starved myself, and I didn't really binge eat - not in the traditional sense, anyway. But I did toss any and all regard for my health aside.

The way my brain typically reacts to food can best be described as follows: Candy tastes good. Thus, eating some will make me feel good. Where some would make me feel good, all will make me feel really good. Feeling good is the opposite of feeling bad. Ergo, I should probably eat all of the candy. Everyday. Forever.

Cut to me at 23, unhappy as a person could be, both emotionally and physically. I was two years into a job I  hated and, instead of dealing with my feelings, I went for the instant gratification of comfort food like a champ. Everyday. Forever. My clothes didn't fit, I felt sick almost all the time, and I was too afraid to go to my doctor for any reason at all because a voice in the back of my head told me there was no way that I wasn't at least borderline diabetic.

"I need to change something," I told a friend desperately, probably as I realized I had hit my personal bottom. "I don't know what, but I need to change something."

I had done Weight Watchers in college, but it didn't work for me. I'd do really well, then slip, feel like I failed, and surrender to the guilt. I flirted with the idea of cutting out sugar for awhile, and maybe even experimenting with being a vegetarian.

A series of tweets (thank you, internet and Olivia Wilde) led me to Alicia Silverstone's book, The Kind Diet. It broke down vegan philosophies and examined the politics of the food industry in a really gentle, logical way. The book didn't tell me I was living my life wrong - it just presented another option. It was the right message, presented in the right way, at exactly the right time.

Now here I am, 3 years in. To commemorate the occasion, after the jump are a few things I've learned.

On That One Time It Was Easter (Or, Not That Time I Explained 4/20 to My Mom)

Remember when it was Easter?

Fine. It was sort of a month and a half-ish ago, and shame on me for not posting about it in a more timely manner. However, it's either this or the story of me having to explain to my mother the significance of 4/20, and trust me, this has the potential to be more useful.

So.

Remember when it was Easter?

I am delighted to say that I have a gigantic and wonderful family. When you're Irish, Catholic, and American, this typically means that Thanksgiving, Christmas, and Easter (the Big Three, if you will) are major affairs full of food, family, and fun (also, alliteration).

The former of that trifecta of holiday F's got a bit trickier when I became the first and only vegan among meat and cheese loving relatives. First off, let me say that everyone has always been very supportive of my choice, and I love to cook, so contributing a dish that I can eat to the potluck affairs is more fun than frustrating. But it's a little intimidating too. There's some skepticism that accompanies the idea of veganity. Were there a standard information pack for beginners, the phrases, "So...what do you eat?" and "Yeah, I had a vegan cookie once and it tasted like cardboard. But it's cool that you're doing that," would be listed under, "Things You Will Hear Constantly for the Rest of Your Life." When I make something to bring to a family gathering, it is with the knowledge that a combination of genuine curiosity and politeness will prompt most in attendance to at least try it. There's added pressure for it to be good, lest I set back the cause.

I know. It's a rough life. Fortunately, there are sites like Isa Chandra Moskowitz's Post Punk Kitchen, to which I turned for a simple and super delicious recipe for March's Easter brunch. I ended up going with the Raspberry Jam Swirl Crumb Cake, making a few modifications along the way. Recipe and pics after the jump.