#TenYears of Reusable Produce Bags

About ten years ago, I sewed a bunch of really ugly produce bags:

Look at the upper right side: the photo comes with its own verdict…EEK!

I wrote a painfully long-winded post about these bags shortly after I started this blog, in which I explained that one day I didn’t see plastic produce bags, and the next day I did.

So: I searched my fabric box and chose the most lightweight material I could find—a length of hideous curtain lace that my mother-in-law had probably bought on clearance and kept for a dozen years, before de-stashing and re-homing with her too-kind-to-say-no daughter-in-law, who—probably five years later—did the merciful thing (because fabric wants to be useful) and whipped up some reusable produce bags.

My children—especially my daughter—were horrified.

Why—WHY?!—do you have to be so weird, and NO, I am NOT going to take one of these bags and put apples into it, thankyouverymuch, because we are in PUBLIC (!) and who knows WHO might see us here, and . . .

(Ah, such happy memories . . .)

Ten-ish years later—ten-ish years during which I wore my children down and they willingly participated in my madness and I saved approximately 2000 plastic produce bags and my daughter got her own set of reusable produce bags (non-hideous ones which I bought for her stocking two Christmases ago)—my daughter goes shopping in a new zero-waste bulk store in the city in which she lives, and she texts me this photo:


Oh my. I think I will. (And I think I have to email the woman behind allthingspreserved.ca, so I can learn the story behind her produce bags.)

This post is a positive offering for the Ten Year challenges that are swirling around on Facebook and Instagram. So many of the pictures are so disheartening, but there are also so many positive things happening, especially in the zero-waste movement.

Zero-waste stores seem to be popping up everywhere—we even now have a tiny store, in the very small and not especially forward-thinking city in which we’re currently planted, a place where I can get bulk dish soap, laundry detergent, shampoo, and toothpaste. And while I know (I know!) that 2000 plastic produce bags saved—or two shampoo bottles, or three dish soap containers—won’t save the world, I can’t help but see all these little things as gateways: little things that can lead to other little things that can lead to bigger things, that can lead us from simple addition all the way to multiplication. Ripples to waves, in other words.

In other ten-year news, it’s ten-ish years since my daughter pushed her pork chop away and declared herself a vegetarian.

My children—especially my daughter—were horrified. Her parents—especially her mother—were horrified.

Why—WHY?!—do you have to be so weird, and NO, I am NOT going to take one of these bags and put apples into it, thankyouverymuch, because we are in PUBLIC (!) and who knows WHO might see us here, and . . . Why—WHY?!—do you have to be so difficult, and NO, I am NOT going to be cooking separate meals for you, thankyouverymuch, because that is doubling my work in the kitchen, and . . .

Ten-ish years later—ten-ish years during which she stuck to her guns and her little brother joined her and I learned even more about cooking and I gave up processed food and we all fully joined her and Oh She Glows became my Bible and her father went down two pant sizes—Health Canada ignored industry pressure and released a new food guide, which recommends a mostly plant-based diet.

Just to be clear: There’s is no connection whatsoever between my daughter becoming vegetarian and Health Canada releasing its new food guide.

There’s only this: Ten years will pass no matter what. And when we come upon new ideas or are faced with new realities, we have two choices: We can flat-out refuse to go or be pulled along protestingly, or, we can open our hearts and minds to new ways of doing and seeing. And if we open our hearts and minds, we might just be very surprised—and grateful—to see where we end up ten years later.



It’s been a tough few weeks, with anxiety over the state of, well, everything, once again wreaking havoc, so I’m going with my “usual” I’d-like-to-post-but-am-feeling-rather-stuckish-and-maybe-this-will-get-the-ball-rolling-once-again kind of post:

Walking: My streak of early morning walking-on-the-treadmill now stands at an uninterrupted 255 days. Moderation is clearly not my thing, and the phrase Once Is A Habit (which got me going) has worked wonders at keeping me going. (Even when I woke up feeling decidedly flu-ish on Christmas morning, I STILL walked, a bucket set on the floor beside me, just in case…)

Reading: Making my way through Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale (for the third time). Since Christmas, I’ve read The Ninth Hour, by Alice McDermott and The Alice Network, by Kate Quinn. I loved both of them. Next up will be Susan Cain’s Quiet: The Power of Introverts in a World That Can’t Stop Talking, because this introvert needs all the encouragement she can get.

Borrowing: Asterix comic books from the library for my 12-year-old son. We currently have 25 volumes checked out. As they’re $13 each, I’m enormously grateful for public libraries.

Watching: Glitch, Death In Paradise, this TED Talk on the gift and power of emotional courage (and the tyranny of forced positivism), and Al Gore’s An Inconvenient Sequel: Truth To Power.

Agreeing: Forced positivism sucks. Can we please stop pushing happiness and belittling ourselves and others for having normal but “bad” emotions? And: Al Gore gets quite hot-under-the-collar in An Inconvenient Sequel. I can empathize…

Acknowledging: Clothes make the man. Or the woman. After years of *needing to*, both my husband and I bought new winter coats this fall: a classic black woollen coat for him; a classic black woollen coat for me. We both look and feel like grown-ups now. It’s rather a nice feeling and we don’t want winter to end.

Knitting: Scarves to tuck into the V of my double-breasted coat. Socks are always on the needles, and I finally bought yarn and began knitting this sweater.

Darning: My daughter’s favourite pair of cross-country skiing mittens. Knit by me years ago, they’ve been darned at least twice before (by me), and once by her boyfriend’s grandmother, who just happened to see a hole in the thumb as they were hanging to dry at their cabin. Although my latest fix would have looked neater had I cut away her boyfriend’s grandmother’s darning, I’m a person who finds metaphor in stitches, and I simply could not bring myself to do it.

Cooking: Why do we only eat Indian food nowadays, Mum?  This from my 12-year-old son. It’s not entirely accurate, but yes, I can see his point. My answer: Um, because it’s so damn good…and because I’m in a rut and completely lack the gumption to seek out new recipes…?

Approximating: Taking my no-longer-vegetarian 19-year-old son’s request for butter chicken and naan bread and completely bastardizing the meal: omitting both the butter and the chicken and healthy-ing-up a flatbread recipe by adding whole wheat flour. I’ve been told in no uncertain terms that I am NOT to proclaim to friends who hail from India that I have cooked butter chicken and naan bread.

Buying: Fenugreek from Amazon because I can’t find it locally in our small city. This will allow me to *finally* make something from the cookbook I bought my husband for Christmas (Vegan Richa’s Indian Kitchen), which will expand our repertoire but will only make matters worse for both sons.

Tweaking: I need to add bamboo toothbrushes to that Amazon order. I’m looking for even more ways to reduce our consumption of plastic. I was hoping to find vats of eco-friendly laundry detergent and dish soap at Bulk Barn so I could bring in my containers and go zero-waste with these two items, but unfortunately, they don’t stock either. This means I need to look up recipes for laundry detergent…

Baking: I’m trying to get back to the regular baking of bread. My favourite recipe is the peasant french bread from The Laurel’s Kitchen Bread Book. It makes a delicious couple of whole grain loaves and helps with my goal of plastic-reduction.

Listening: My new favourite band is The Decemberists, discovered when driving with my 19-year-old son. Love The Wrong Year, A Beginning Song, Make You Better, Don’t Carry It All.

Podcasting: Not making, just listening. Harry Potter and the Sacred Text (the deep-thinking, humanistic production I cannot seem to stop raving about). They’re currently making their way through The Goblet of Fire, and it’s both lovely and spooky that each episode seems to somehow address the very things I’m pondering.

Wondering: Whether it’s okay for me to bring up the fact that I’m wondering about all the outrage that’s been expressed over the news that an adopted pig ended up on the dinner table. Why is it that some animals are worthy of protection but millions of others are not?

Editing: I removed a 300-word rant about wanting to let loose and lecture someone about egregious plastic bag use. (Yup, I was *this close* to causing a scene in a store last week.) Perhaps this will become a post all on its own. Perhaps it’s best if it doesn’t…

Do share: tell me what you’re —ing these days…the good, the bad, the ugly; it’s all allowed here…

My Husband May Be Turning Into a Vegan Activist

Well, *there’s* a sentence I never thought I’d write…

So, technically my husband is not actually a vegan (he has yet to give up butter or the occasional pizza), and perhaps activist is a bit hyperbolic (although his co-workers might disagree) …

But before I explain what’s happened with my husband, I think a little background is in order:

Our 19 year-old daughter has been a vegetarian — off and on — for about eight years now. She declared her vegetarianism — without preamble, without any hint of a warning — just before her twelfth birthday. We were camping and my husband had just set a barbecued pork chop onto her plate when she suddenly pushed the plate away and said, “I don’t want to eat this; I want to be a vegetarian.”

So, of course — as any parents would do — my husband and I questioned her on it. Isn’t this rather out of the blue? we asked.

But no, apparently not. Apparently, it was something she had been thinking of for quite some time*, and because of that it didn’t even occur to us that it was something we could, or should, be talking her out of.

(I do confess that when, a few short months later, our daughter’s politically- and socially-active social studies teacher showed her class the documentary Food, Inc (much to the chagrin of many parents) and one of her best friends went home and told her parents that she too wanted to become a vegetarian, and her parents simply said, Oh no, you’re NOT! … I felt slightly duped. Did YOU know, I asked my husband, that we could simply have said “No”?!?!)

Has this last paragraph left you with the impression that I was less-than-happy with her supposedly well-thought-out stance?

Yes, I admit to a fair amount of grumbling:

What’s she going to eat when we have chicken?! What about the pasta sauce?! And why am I the one now stuck cooking (cough*heating*cough) TWO meals?!

But, ah … the beauty that occasionally comes with hindsight … ! Looking back on it now, I’m extraordinarily glad that we didn’t talk her out of it, because although our daughter’s position was tempered by a short period during which she acquiesced slightly and ate organic, free-range meat and chicken, her vegetarianism has meant several things to our family:

  • It forced me to become a better cook (although I confess to a fair amount of *heating* until the year I gave up processed food):http://greengreyandgezellig.com/?p=483
  • Her stance influenced her younger brother, who also turned vegetarian for a time, and who, to this day, remains very thoughtful about the food he eats.
  • Our youngest son has — from a very young age — been exposed to (and eats!) a wide variety of foods which he claims his friends’ parents would never dream of setting on the table**.
  • It further heightened my already-strong interest in reading about nutrition and health, which has resulted in a healthier and more varied diet than we would have had otherwise, and we have all slowly moved along with her to what has become, in the last couple of years, a nearly-completely vegetarian diet.
  • It has likely halted what we’ve always imagined to be my husband’s genetic “fate”: a predisposition that would lead inexorably towards weight gain and chronic disease.

And this is where we return to my husband and the whole vegan-esque activist thing …

My husband has recently done two things (and by that, I mean he has done them independently; he has not just watched me do them and then listened to my take on things):

  1. He’s read How Not to Die: Discover the Foods Scientifically Proven to Prevent and Reverse Disease, by Dr. Michael Greger, the medical doctor who runs the website nutritionfacts.org. This is a two-part book which deals with both the scientific evidence which lies behind the top fifteen causes of death in the U.S., as well as the foods*** which have been shown to prevent these diseases. It’s well-written and very accessible; my husband, who has a strong technical background, but is completely unversed in biological matters, has found it to be a fascinating read.
  2. He’s watched the documentary Cowspiracy. This is an eye-opening movie which does two things: firstly, it illustrates the enormous and wide-ranging effects animal agriculture has on the Earth, from deforestation to toxic run-off to dead zones in oceans to methane production to the mis-use of antibiotics to climate change; and secondly, it highlights the failure of environmental organizations to acknowledge the elephant in the room that is agribusiness.

Now, although my husband has compelling personal reasons to be galvanized by what he’s read and watched, it’s struck me that this book and this film provide a powerful wake-up call even to those without those compelling personal reasons; that if ever there were reasons to experiment with Meatless Mondays, to become a weekday vegetarian, or to *gasp* go whole hog (pun intended) and do one’s darnedest to become a vegan, well, these two things in concert would be IT, because the evidence is powerful: what’s good for our health is also good for the planet’s health.

*“…quite some time…” Ha! Our daughter recently confessed that it actually wasn’t something she had thought about prior to that fateful supper; she just figured we would be less likely to talk her out of it if we felt it was a decision she had conscientiously arrived at. What a stinker….

**Does it sound like our ten year-old son is ecstatic about this arrangement? He’s not. If he had his way I would be serving Kraft Dinner (macaroni and cheese) every. single. meal. But hey, we’re not zealots! He had a hot dog just last week when we went to a hockey game.

***Greger’s book promotes a whole food plant-based diet: vegetables, fruits, whole grains, legumes, and nuts and seeds, with little to no ultra-processed foods.

Soul-Sustaining Scenery Versus the Treadmill


These are scenes from yesterday morning’s walk. A fresh snowfall, crisp air, and heavy boots to work up a sweat … what a lovely way to start the day 🙂 .

I’ve never been much of an “exerciser”. My pre-children attempts at exercise were sporadic, at best, and my post-children years have been even more dismal. I’ve watched as others (my husband and my sister-in-law, for example) have consistently managed to find the time for regular exercise, but I’ve always put other obligations (children and home) first, completely discounting and disregarding — disdaining even! — the whole don-your-own-oxygen-mask-first-before-attempting-to-help-others approach to self-care and health.

So after a lifetime of neglect, it shouldn’t really have come as any surprise when, about three years ago, I began feeling distinctly creaky in the hip area.

Slightly panicked and knowing I had to finally do something, but reluctant to be spending an hour in the basement on the treadmill, I decided to try going for a long walk after dropping our youngest off at school in the morning. But while I managed some mornings, it was still sporadic; I was letting the day and its obligations dictate the exercise, rather than scheduling the day around the walking. I was still letting myself be somewhat of a martyr to my family and my home. I was still putting my physical and mental health in the backseat, and it wasn’t until Deborah advised that I should view my walking as a prescription for health that I managed to completely turn my way-of-thinking around.

Our daughter sent us this very funny (and OH, SO TRUE!) video a few days ago, which completely fits with the theme of this post. If you haven’t already seen it, I hope you enjoy it as much as we did (but FYI, there is one partially beeped out f-word):


So a Meat-loving Omnivore Comes to Dinner at a Vegetarian’s House …

That string of words reminds me of one of those bad bar jokes:  So a vegan and a vegetarian and an omnivore walk into a bar …

In what is my shortest blog post ever, I’d like to ask a question:

If a vegetarian is hosting a dinner party for a group of omnivores, and she knows that one of her guests is not simply an easygoing whatever-you-care-to-serve-me kind of omnivore, but rather, is a fairly militant where’s the beef? kind of omnivore, should she, as a gracious host, feel obligated to provide some sort of meat-containing dish? Or should she use the opportunity to show the where’s the beef man how delicious vegan and/or vegetarian fare can really be?

Processed Food is a Slippery Slope

The challenge was posed just over two years ago, by my then 16 year-old daughter:

Go for an entire year without making oven food.

Hmmm … Oven Food … as in anything cooked in the oven?!

Well, no. You see, at some point, over the years of child-rearing, oven food became our family’s term for any food item that got slid from a box onto a cookie sheet and heated in the oven. In our house, oven food means processed food, specifically processed food of the suppertime entrée variety.

The challenge came following a week in which I apparently — according to my daughter, although my youngest son would strenuously disagree — out-did myself in the kitchen. Although cooking isn’t my favourite thing-to-do, I had just had an unprecedented spate of success: an entire week of made-from-scratch meals — some new recipes, some tried-and-true favourites, and a couple days of some really tasty leftovers.

The fact that I accepted her challenge with an enthusiastic, Sure, I’ll try! illustrates just how far we’ve come …

Here’s a rather sad fact: when I got married, nearly 25 years ago, I didn’t know how to peel and chop an onion. I had never sliced and diced a sweet pepper. And I didn’t know the difference between a bulb of garlic and a clove, let alone how to operate a garlic press.

I grew up in the 70s and 80s, with a mother who was an absolute wizard with a needle and thread, but who, unfortunately, hated cooking with an almost equal passion. Although part of the problem lay with the fact that she didn’t really know how to cook, it was also fairly obvious that there was a fair measure of simmering resentment about having to cook. We were, after all, living in the height of the me generation, a time in which women all around her were embarking on careers outside the home. And while women were being liberated from mundane drudgery, food corporations were standing at the ready, poised to take full advantage of a social movement. What better way to free women from the ignoble chore of cooking than by selling them processed foods?

The result of these combined circumstances? A nearly perfect storm of unhealthy eating when I was growing up.

Suppers at our house were a rotating variation of either white rice or boiled potatoes paired with some sort of meat:  chicken, which was shake-and-baked; pork chops, also shake-and-baked; or fish, breaded and frozen and slid from the box into the frying pan. Mix into the rotation a few frozen pizzas, some fish sticks and frozen french fries, some canned soup, and the occasional chili cobbled together with hamburger, powdered onion, a can of baked beans and a can of tomato soup. Add in some canned corn or frozen peas, the occasional head of broccoli or a once-a-week salad made from nutritionally-devoid iceberg lettuce (dressed with pickle juice), and you have a pretty good idea of what I ate for the first 23 years of my life.

Although my husband was used to better fare (his parents enjoyed cooking and were quite good at it), we embarked on married life fuelling our bodies with me as the head of the kitchen. While I surreptitiously observed my mother-in-law in her kitchen, and thus began to figure out the basics of onion and pepper chopping, my husband and I were both busy with school and work, and neither of us thought it important to spare much of an effort to escape the ease of processed food. Most meals were slid from a box onto a cookie sheet and thrown into the oven. Sometimes there was spaghetti and a jar of prepared sauce. There were an awful lot of breaded mystery-meat patties that we fried up, and to this day I have no idea what they contained, although I do remember there was a long list of fine print on the packaging, words I never bothered to read.

We were all set to raise the next generation of non-cooks (otherwise known as heaters) when a serendipitous mailing arrived at our house: a free copy of the Nutrition Action Health Letter, a publication put out by the Center for Science in the Public Interest.  The CSPI’s mandate is two-fold:  educating the public on nutrition and health, as well as lobbying government and corporations on issues such as food additives, labeling laws and health claims.

For the first time in my life, I took a hard look at what we were eating, and what I was feeding our young children. And I didn’t like what I saw.

Subscribing to the Nutrition Action Health Letter was the first step in what’s been a 20+ year journey.  That initial subscription marked the beginning of my label reading, my recipe cutting (this was pre-internet), my days of checking cookbooks out of the library, and my voracious reading of anything that had to do with nutrition.

But although I started finding recipes, and began to do more cooking, I often still found myself in ruts. It was an effort to try new things, and I found it disheartening when a promising dish turned out to be a dud. Although I was having some success, my kids were still putting up a fair amount of resistance. They were — amazingly! — willing to eat soup containing chick peas, a thing I never once encountered in childhood (and shamefully, I know I would have run the other way if ever offered some), yet they greeted lentils with disgust. I often found myself making the same dishes over and over, and I still clung to the whole heating business, interspersing scratch meals with a liberal selection of convenience slid from a box. I told myself I was choosing healthier options, because, based on the advice of the Nutrition Action Health Letter, I was diligently reading labels, avoiding preservatives such as TBHQ and BHT/BHA, and eschewing anything that contained partially-hydrogenated oils or high fructose corn syrup.

But I noticed something: on days I decided to heat, I felt guilty (I wasn’t doing much better at feeding my family than my mother had!), and on days I had to cook, I resented the time taken from something else I’d rather have been doing. Truth be told, I didn’t really enjoy cooking any more than my mother had. Processed foods were still my crutch. And it wasn’t until I embarked on my daughter’s challenge and threw away the crutch that several things became clear:

  • Convenience is a slippery slope

Tell me one person who, after getting an automatic clothes washer, would go back to a washboard. And why on earth would they? An automatic washer cleans clothes just as well, if not better.

But while we of a certain age grew up with the prevailing notion that food is food is food, the trial is now over and the jury’s come back. And unfortunately, the unanimous verdict from all proponents across the full spectrum of diets (vegan, vegetarian, Mediterranean, paleo), is that a diet high in processed food is a recipe for unhealthiness.

So what about moderation? Surely processed food every now and again isn’t going to kill us?

No, it isn’t. But while I’m usually an everything-in-moderation kind of person, here’s what I’ve discovered about me and moderation, with regards to processed food: every incident of heating that occurs in my kitchen is a teetering on a slippery slope. Because I don’t enjoy day-in and day-out cooking, heating chips away at the hard-fought habit of cooking in exactly the way a day off exercising chips away at the habit of going down to the basement to run on the treadmill. But processed foods aren’t just a slippery slope for me. The bigger problem is that they’re also a slippery slope for my children, most notably my nine year-old.

Here’s a fact about my youngest child: he LOVES processed food!

But maybe it’s not just him; maybe ALL young children do, and perhaps there’s a scientific reason for it.

During my year of no oven food, I read Michael Moss’ Salt Sugar Fat, How the Food Giants Hooked UsTruthfully, it wasn’t an absolutely riveting read; however, it was an eye-opening insight into the processed food industry. Here’s what we’re up against when our child balks at our home-cooked meal and pleads for chicken nuggets: oodles of dollars in research and years of careful tweaking of salt, sugar, fat and numerous other additives, all with the goal of making food sublime and tantalizing and even addictive.

The best way I’ve found to compete against all that? I now know to let it in the door as seldom as possible.

Here’s the second truth I’ve come to:

  • Cooking is work

I know. This is a really obvious statement. Of course, cooking is work!

The thing is, a lot of people (that is to say, people who aren’t doing the actual cooking) often don’t really *get* the fact that cooking is work.

There’s finding recipes, meal planning, and grocery shopping. Then comes the chopping and dicing and measuring of ingredients, the time spent standing over the hot stove. There’s setting the table, clearing the table, and washing the dishes. I’m going to go out on a limb and say that for the vast majority of us, day-in and day-out cooking is not fun; it’s work, deserving of respect.

One way to teach children (or husbands/wives/partners!) to respect the work of cooking is to have them take part in the process. But the other part of the equation comes with setting some simple rules. These rules are what I would refer to as company manners, the etiquette one should be taught to follow when visiting someone’s house and partaking in a meal. But the thing is, if expressions of Yuck! or Ew! are disrespectful and unacceptable at Grandma’s house, then why are they allowed at home? And a thank-you for supper at the end of the meal, some acknowledgement and expression of gratitude that work was performed in getting food onto the table — no matter if the meal was greatly enjoyed or not — should be a basic requirement.

And this leads to my third observation:

  • Children will — eventually — learn to eat what is set before them

Suppertime at our house used to be filled with all sorts of unpleasantries: there’s been whining, obstinate refusals to eat, instances of head-on-the-table shedding of tears. It’s a tough thing to go through as a parent. We worry that our kids will starve, that asking them to eat something they don’t like will somehow damage them. We despair that we’ll never be able to take them anywhere.

Parenting is often about picking your battles, making decisions as to which points of contention are worth fighting over, and which ones you’re going to raise the white flag on. Here are some thoughts on making the supper table a place where you stand your ground:

  1. Children will eventually learn to eat what’s put before them. (Reassurance and tips for this can be found in the book French Kids Eat Everything). While the best time to shape a child’s eating habits is when they’re very young, it is entirely possible to change course when they’re teenagers, and to embark on healthy eating mid-stream, as a family.
  2. Picky eating can be both nutritionally and socially detrimental. The best way to combat this is by refusing to make secondary meals, and by taking the position that supper is what’s served. In my experience, nonchalance is the best defence to counter-arguments.
  3. The incidence of many diseases, such as type 2 diabetes and heart disease, are on the rise. They’re also beginning at earlier ages than they did in previous generations. Poor diets and processed foods are largely being held to blame for much of this. The documentary Fed Up provides a stark analysis of this situation and describes a state of affairs that’s both maddening and heartbreaking (although the current desire to point the finger of blame at sugar and processed foods, and to exonerate saturated fat, isn’t correct either. Videos showing why you shouldn’t buy into that new way of thinking can be found here: part one and part two). The brutally hard truth of the matter is that while it’s easy to come up with excuses (I’m too busy to cook, my life is too stressful, I don’t know how…) it’s becoming harder and harder to plead ignorance of the consequences of a poor diet. We as parents — as the adults in the house, as the grocery shoppers and cooks — are responsible for what food items come into the house, and although saying no isn’t the easiest thing to do, the evidence is telling us it’s the right thing to do.
  4. The ability to cook is, I would argue, an essential piece of adulthood. If it’s our job as parents to raise responsible and competent adults, then continuing along whatever detrimental path we’re currently on is ultimately doing our children a great disservice. According to Jamie Oliver, the British chef who worked wonders in getting real food into school cafeterias in England, many families in Europe and North America are now into their third generation of non-cooks, their health at the mercy of food corporations whose main concern is turning a profit.
  5. If I can do it — remember where I started? — anyone can do it. And because of the internet, it’s easier than ever before. Google makes the need to embarrass yourself in front of your new mother-in-law entirely unnecessary, and also provides answers to every possible cooking question you could ever think to ask.

Once again, I’ve written a novel of a post; my apologies for my long-windedness.

Unfortunately, I’m not quite finished yet, because I do have to come back to the challenge my daughter set …

Did I make it the whole year?

Here’s what happened:  I set out on the year not stressing about it overly much, a fact which is curiously surprising given the fact I stress over a lot of things! Perhaps, because I’m not a buyer-in-bulk and didn’t have a vast store of frozen goods in the freezer waiting to tempt me with convenience, I subconsciously felt I had no choice: the cooking habit simply HAD to take hold right from Day One. I vaguely knew I had to have meal plans in place, and to make sure I had staples on hand. I knew that on busy days I’d better be thinking about supper at breakfast time and planning accordingly, either by pre-chopping vegetables, or choosing easy recipes, or by plugging in the slow cooker, a hitherto little-used appliance which became my best friend. I tried a lot of new recipes over the course of the year. I learned to LOVE days of leftovers and to plan meals of leftovers for the very busiest of days. My nine year-old eventually gave up complaining about the “weird food” we were always eating (I’ll explain more about this in another post), and he stopped asking for hot dogs and Kraft Dinner (macaroni and cheese to the Americans out there).  (I do admit that when he asked for that specific meal for his birthday, I couldn’t say no. And while technically hot dogs do fall under the processed food umbrella, they’re not really oven food, are they?)

So here it is … with the exception of one terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day (to quote Judith Viorst) in which I headed (in a perfectly foul mood) to the local Foodland at 5pm in order to buy a box of Highliner breaded salmon … I did it!

And when I announced it to my family, somewhere around New Year’s, in a somewhat bemused and unbelieving voice, all the while searching my brain and trying to recall if there actually had been any other very bad day like the aforementioned one, my daughter said, “What?! I don’t remember that! I didn’t really challenge you to do that, did I?!”

(At which point I closed my eyes, speechless … )