Glu-teen Free

Off To Hong Kong to research Gluten Free

2011-03-07T05:44:00.000-08:00

I am leaving to go to Hong Kong for a couple of years. I'm looking forward to learning about the country and to discovering whether or not Hong Kong's steamed deep fried chicken feet can be made gluten free. Wish me luck!

If you wish to follow my travails (travels) check out my newest blog:

www.sistermissionary.blogspot.com

The Irony

2010-10-14T11:05:00.000-07:00

OH, I shouldn't be on here, I'm writing an essay due in at 1:35 pm today... but I couldn't help sharing the hilarity.

The essay is on adolescent experiences which changed domains (social, cognitive, moral, etc) of our lives. Of course, one of the experiences I mentioned was being diagnosed with celiac disease.

I had just begun the "health" domain of celiac disease when I took a break for lunch: plain yogurt straight from the container and a cup of chocolate chip cookie dough (GF!) that I found in the bottom of the fridge while looking for the yogurt.

As I returned with my spoils to continue the essay, I found the cursor blinking at the end of this beautifully ironic sentence:

The diagnosis of celiac disease greatly influenced my eating habits

Oh, how true it is... I think I meant, "for the better," but can't bring myself to type it.
That is, at least until I finish off this cookie dough.

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Henry B. Eyring, "Fellowship of the Unashamed"

2010-08-29T12:37:00.000-07:00

I am part of the fellowship of the unashamed. The dye has been cast!
I have stepped over the line.
The decision has been made; I am a disciple of Jesus Christ.
I won't look back, let up, slow down, or be still.
My past is redeemed, my present makes sense, and my future is secure.
I'm finished and done with low living, small planning, smooth knees, colorless dreams, tainted visions, worldly talking, cheap giving, and dwarfed goals.
I no longer need pre-eminence, positions, promotions, plaudits or popularity.
I now live by faith, lean on His presence, walk with patience, am uplifted by prayer, and labor with power. My face is set, my gait is fast, and my goal is Heaven. My road is narrow, my way is rough, my companions are few, my guide is reliable, my mission is clear! I cannot be bought, compromised, detoured, lured away, divided or delayed.
I will not flinch in the face of sacrifice, hesitate in the presence of the adversary, negotiate at the table of the enemy, ponder at the pool of popularity, or meander in the maze of mediocrity. I won't give up, shut up, or let up, until I have stayed up stored up, and paid up of the cause of Christ.
I must go till He comes, give till I drop, preach till I know, and work till He stops me.
And when He returns for His own, He will have no problem recognizing me.
My banner will be clear.

Henry B. Eyring

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Be Still My Soul-- 5 beautiful verses

2010-08-28T13:45:00.000-07:00

Be still, my soul: the Lord is on thy side.
Bear patiently the cross of grief or pain.
Leave to thy God to order and provide;
In every change, He faithful will remain.
Be still, my soul: thy best, thy heavenly Friend
Through thorny ways leads to a joyful end.

Be still, my soul: thy God doth undertake
To guide the future, as He has the past.
Thy hope, thy confidence let nothing shake;
All now mysterious shall be bright at last.
Be still, my soul: the waves and winds still know
His voice Who ruled them while He dwelt below.

Be still, my soul: when dearest friends depart,
And all is darkened in the vale of tears,
Then shalt thou better know His love, His heart,
Who comes to soothe thy sorrow and thy fears.
Be still, my soul: thy Jesus can repay
From His own fullness all He takes away.

Be still, my soul: the hour is hastening on
When we shall be forever with the Lord.
When disappointment, grief and fear are gone,
Sorrow forgot, love’s purest joys restored.
Be still, my soul: when change and tears are past
All safe and blessèd we shall meet at last.

Be still, my soul: begin the song of praise
On earth, be leaving, to Thy Lord on high;
Acknowledge Him in all thy words and ways,
So shall He view thee with a well pleased eye.
Be still, my soul: the Sun of life divine
Through passing clouds shall but more brightly shine.

Anorexia, Anxiety, Celiac Disease

2010-08-25T06:28:00.000-07:00

I've been doing a little research, about anorexia (and depression and anxiety, actually) being connected with celiac disease and/or gluten intolerance. I wanted to see if there was any merit in the idea. I assumed that the research stemmed from the theory that an aversion to food in general was created by negative physical responses to consuming gluten--because kids had repeated bad experiences with food (gluten) they responded by avoiding it entirely, sometimes subconsciously. I've been reading some new studies on CD, however, which indicate that biology is as much, if not more connected, as psychology when testing for connections between CD and anorexia.

One of the article titles is Regional Cerebral Hypoperfusion in Patients with Celiac Disease, American Journal of Medicine, March 1, 2004, pp. 312-317.
It stated that brain hypoperfusion ("circumcised areas of decreased tracer uptake" = lack of blood supply to the brain, from what I can tell) occurs in some patients who have an increased sensitivity to gluten. Hypoperfusion affects the frontal lobe, which increases instances of both anxiety and depression. "No blood flow abnormalities were found in the healthy control subjects. Of the 15 untreated celiac patients, 11 had at least one hypoperfused brain region...while only 1 of 15 celiac patients on a gluten-free diet had hypoperfusion...high levels of anxiety were common in the untreated celiac patients (11/15)... depression was more common in untreated celiac patients (10/15)."

I know, it was very dense--at least for me. My mom understands it better than I do because she went to a seminar where medical doctors become certified for celiac disease diagnosis (she just went for fun, I think) and they explained these ideas more fully there.

The second article I found, in the Ailment Pharmacology Therapy, 2004 Issue 20, pp. 821-824 goes on to say that they have discovered similar blood flow alterations in the brain "in untreated patients affected by anorexia nervosa." "Untreated patients" refers to people who are positive for CD but are not on a gluten-free diet.

This article explains a little more on hyperpofusion (which it defines as, "a decreased blood supply caused by inflammation and often causing lesions on the brain surface"): Kieslich, M., Pediatrics Vol. 108 No. 2, August 2001.

The fourth article just came out in 2010 and is just astounding to me--the study found that many patients with neurological symptoms of celiac disease often had NO gastrointestinal symptoms which are generally used to identify and diagnose celiac disease. It also noted that "celiac disease... is only one aspect of a range of possible manifestations of gluten sensitivity," and goes on to say that "although neurological manifestations in patients with established celiac disease have been reported since 1966, it was not until 30 years later that, in some individuals, gluten sensitivity was shown to manifest SOLELY with neurological dysfunction." According to the article, "MOST patients with neurological manifestations of gluten sensitivity have few gastrointestinal symptoms." Oh, that article was Lancet Neurol 2010; 9: pp. 318-30

I didn't surprise me to read that the recommended treatment, along with the GF diet change, is increased omega 3 and megadoses of vitamin D, along with colostrum to improve the intestinal health.

If you want to pull these articles up in their entirety, all medical journal articles are available on pubmed.org. The site only offers an abstract of medical articles--you can read and get the articles printed for free from any public library. Otherwise it's a $30 fee for each article (spendy!).

The best news is that if you do think this could be an issue (or a help for a solution! best way to think about it), a "spit test" is coming out soon for gluten-sensitivity. I could explain it forever, but basically it's the most accurate AND inexpensive, simple test which has ever been available to test for celiac disease or gluten-sensitivity. It will be out by the end of the summer (the end of August, I guess?), which is wonderful news--the old methods (blood test, stool test, biopsies) were expensive and extremely inaccurate.

Toaster Tales

2010-05-28T07:23:00.000-07:00

"We seriously need to invest in a toaster," my roommate yawned dispiritedly as she stooped over, clutching her bathrobe around her, watching her bread toast through the oven window.

"HA!" I shouted as I jabbed a spatula into her side, rendering her considerably more awake. "We should invest in some rat poison! And we could sprinkle it over the counters at night just for fun!"

OK, not really. But when you're worried about the slightest, microscopic contamination from your makeup and last year's rolling pin, the introduction of a hulking, seething mass of malice oozing poisonous crumbs all over your counter and into the cupboards is somehow not met with shouts of joy.

How can we contain the beast when our roommates, significant others, family, assassins-in-disguise have brought it into the household?

Step One: Put it on its own counter.
Step Two: Nightly, build a wall of canned goods around it.
Step Three: Construct a scare-toaster (an upside down broom will do; toasters aren't too smart) to keep it from oozing contaminants when you're not in the kitchen watching it.
Step Four: Turn the knobs all the time (use gloves!). If you're lucky, your roommates/significant others/would-be-assassins will become so disgusted with its inconsistent performance that they will allow you to throw it out... the window.

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Elder Ballard, Mothers and Daughters

2010-05-25T15:11:00.000-07:00

A few short excerpts:

Sisters, we, your brethren, cannot do what you were divinely designated to do from before the foundation of the world. We may try, but we cannot ever hope to replicate your unique gifts. There is nothing in this world as personal, as nurturing, or as life changing as the influence of a righteous woman.
...
Immodest, immoral, intemperate women jam the airwaves, monopolize magazines, and slink across movie screens—all while being celebrated by the world.
...
Popular culture today often makes women look silly, inconsequential, mindless, and powerless. It objectifies them and disrespects them and then suggests that they are able to leave their mark on mankind only by seduction—easily the most pervasively dangerous message the adversary sends to women about themselves.
...
In recent years there has been a rash of articles, books, and films written about women and girls who gossip and who are “mean.” Satan is always attempting to undermine the most precious element of a woman’s divine nature—the nature to nurture.
...
For example, they need to understand that when they wear clothing that is too tight, too short, or too low cut, they not only can send the wrong message to young men with whom they associate, but they also perpetuate in their own minds the fallacy that a woman’s value is dependent solely upon her sensual appeal. This never has been nor will it ever be within the righteous definition of a faithful daughter of God. They need to hear this—clearly and repeatedly—from your lips, and they need to see it modeled correctly and consistently in your own personal standards of dress, grooming, and modest living.
...
I conclude my counsel with this prophetic summary from President Joseph F. Smith: “Our [family] associations are not exclusively intended for this life, for time, as we distinguish it from eternity. We live for time and for eternity. We form associations and relations for time and all eternity. … Who are there besides the Latter-day Saints who contemplate the thought that beyond the grave we will continue in the family organization? the father, the mother, the children recognizing each other … ? this family organization being a unit in the great and perfect organization of God’s work, and all destined to continue throughout time and eternity?” (Teachings: Joseph F. Smith, 385, 386).

Humbled...

2010-03-30T16:24:00.000-07:00

...let me tell you a little story about pride. I just sat down in the JSB reading room, feeling pretty comfortable and pleased with my time-management duties. I'd already had an hour-long scripture study in the Old Testament, exercised for another hour, made chicken pesto, watched devotional and taught econ that morning, and it was only 1:30! I had just enough time to finish reading that Isaiah assignment before my two o'clock class--but was suddenly jolted from my happy musings as I opened my laptop. See, I had forgotten that I had exercised to the melodies on my LAPTOP this morning--cranked as loud as the computer gets-- and "KEEEEEEP HOLDING OOOOOOOON" blared on for all the instantly-miffed studious students who HAD been enjoying the quiet. Unfortunately, I couldn't figure out how to get it to turn off, either, as the "mute" button doesn't work until the computer boots up. Closing it was having NO EFFECT for some reason ("WE'RE GONNA MAKE IT THROUGH, MAKE IT THROUGH!!!!") and people were looking up, (of course, it was like a train full of Avril Lavigne fans had just driven through the wall), but all I could do was stare at my closed computer at a loss, with a bemused and slightly crazed smile itching up my face. (Should I sit on it?!!) What could I do but giggle as I grabbed the offending device (which was still singing: "JUUUUUUUST HOOOOLD OOOOOON") and sprinted outside?? I did tell the angry mob of students (who were now gathering their pencils while Avril blared, "THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN SAAAAAAAAY!") on my way out the door, "Hey! At least it's a good song!"

Nothing like feeling thankful every time you open your laptop and it doesn't sing to you. Woo-hoo!

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Glenn Pace's Beautiful Speech on Womanhood

2010-03-28T15:38:00.000-07:00

The Divine Nature  and Destiny of Women

GLENN L. PACE

Glenn L. Pace was a member of the First Quorum of the Seventy
of The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints
when this devotional address was given on 9 March 2010.

Complete volumes of Speeches are available wherever LDS books are sold.

For further information contact:
Speeches, 218 University Press Building, Provo, Utah 84602.
/ E-mail: speeches@byu.edu / Speeches Home Page

The Family: A Proclamation to the World” states:

All human beings—male and female—are created in the image of God. Each is a beloved spirit son or daughter of heavenly parents, and, as such, each has a divine nature and destiny. Gender is an essential characteristic of individual premortal, mortal, and eternal identity and purpose.¹

My focus this morning will be on the divine nature and destiny of women and the sacred role they play in the sanctification and purification of men.

I’m going to start by giving you two exclusive scoops. First, males and females are different. Second, those differences are more than physical.

I developed a love and appreciation for womanhood in my childhood. My mother, sisters, grandmas, aunts, and female cousins and friends brought immeasurable love into my young life. This set the stage for the adult relationships with my wife, daughters, and granddaughters.

All of the above have contributed to my feelings of reverence, adoration, and even veneration of righteous women.

In pondering the effect women have had on my life, I have concluded that there has been a metamorphosis of my spirit that could not have taken place without these relationships.

Of course, the first woman in my life was my mother. How can I describe the impact of my mother’s love? A lullaby, being tucked in bed, are you warm enough, a kiss goodnight, Glenn, you’d better get up, you don’t want to be late for school, a kiss good morning, you are such a special boy, oh honey, how I love you, I made some chocolate chip cookies, I want to take your picture, I’m so proud of you, I know you can do it, are you going to go on a mission, you are going to go on a mission, I miss you so much, frequent love notes, let’s go look at the roses, did you see the full moon, aren’t the mountains beautiful today, the love in her eyes, her touch, her smell, her elegance, her tender heart, her sensitivity, her femininity.

That was just a blink in a lifetime of nurturing.

In addition to the loving care I received from my mother, I received similar nurturing from my big sister, who was my mentor and protector.

When I was old enough to enter kindergarten, I was worried sick. I had watched my sister do her homework and was concerned by the fact that I didn’t know how to read or do arithmetic. The night before school started, my apprehension must have shown, because she came into the bedroom and started talking to me about school. I explained my concerns, and she immediately began to allay my fears. She told me about recess. I could handle that. Then she explained that I would be taught to read one word at a time, and she assured me that I was smart and wouldn’t have any trouble.

Now, how would a brother handle a situation like that?

“Wow, you’re in big trouble! You may never graduate from kindergarten. But I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. If you will give me your allowance, I’ll help you.”

As I mentioned earlier, men and women are different.

My appreciation for women rose to a whole new dimension when our two daughters came into our lives. There is something angelic about daughters—at least in the eyes of their father.

I have sometimes lamented that I wasn’t born with the perspective daughters brought into my life. If a man could be born with that insight, his respect for and treatment of a young woman during his dating years would improve significantly.

I remember a time when my oldest daughter was just six or seven years old. I was struggling with saying my personal prayers on a consistent basis. I remember walking into her bedroom one night to listen to her say her prayers. Her room felt so peaceful, innocent, and pure that I felt like praying. I explained as best I could that I’d like to get into the habit of saying my prayers and asked if I could pray at her bedside. She looked a little puzzled but agreed. On the second or third night, as I began my silent prayer, I felt her little hand on my head. She then turned on her side and with both hands began running her fingers through my hair. I felt touched by an angel. I must admit, it felt so good that my prayers became longer.

To this day, whenever there is a family gathering, I will eventually work my way over to the couch or chair where she is located, sit on the floor, and wait for her to run her fingers through my hair.

From the time my second daughter was a baby through her early grade-school years, I would rock her to sleep at night and carry her to bed. I always knew when she was asleep because tiny beads of perspiration would appear on her little nose. I would look at her angelic face and wonder if heaven could feel any better than this.

I concluded it must be a great comfort to her to fall asleep in her father’s arms. Now I realize the peace and comfort she transmitted to me was possibly even greater.

I have always been impressed with the love and respect our Savior bestowed upon the women in His life. As we read about these associations, our focus is generally on what He taught them and the love and understanding He gave them. Have you ever considered the possibility that these women provided immense comfort to His burdened soul? It is my belief that He needed them as He journeyed toward living a perfect life so He could provide the ultimate sacrifice.

I repeat that my associations and interplay with the righteous women in my life have created a metamorphosis of my spirit and have been purifying and sanctifying.

I’d now like to turn to the more intimate relationship of husband and wife and the impact that relationship has on our exaltation.

You are all familiar with the story of the Creation. I’m going to pick up the account where Adam was placed on the earth. Please pay particular attention to the sequence of events leading up to the introduction of Eve.

And the Gods formed man from the dust of the ground, and took his spirit (that is, the man’s spirit), and put it into him; and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and man became a living soul.

And the Gods planted a garden, eastward in Eden, and there they put the man, whose spirit they had put into the body which they had formed.

And out of the ground made the Gods to grow every tree that is pleasant to the sight and good for food; the tree of life, also, in the midst of the garden, and the tree of knowledge of good and evil. [Abraham 5:7–9]

Thus far there is no mention of Eve.

And out of the ground I, the Lord God, formed every beast of the field, and every fowl of the air; and commanded that they should come unto Adam, to see what he would call them; and they were also living souls; for I, God, breathed into them the breath of life, and commanded that whatsoever Adam called every living creature, that should be the name thereof.

And Adam gave names to all cattle, and to the fowl of the air, and to every beast of the field; but as for Adam, there was not found an help meet for him. [Moses 3:19–20]

In summary, before Eve appeared, the world had been created, Adam had been placed in the Garden of Eden, and he had named and associated with all of the animals. He was enjoying a utopia in physical surroundings as well as open communication with God. What more could he ask for? What more could he need?

As President J. Reuben Clark put it:

Adam wandered alone in the glorious Garden in Eden, which he had dressed and adorned—the Garden of Eden with its stately trees, its lovely flowers heavy with sweet odors, its grassy swards, its magnificent vistas with the far reaches of its placid rivers, with its gaily plumed birds, its lordly and graceful beasts, all at peace, for sin was not yet in the world. Through all this magnificence Adam wandered, lonely, unsolaced, uncompanioned, the only being of his kind in the whole world, his life unshared in a solitude of exquisite elegance, and, what was of far greater moment, his mission, as he knew it to be, impossible of fulfillment, except the Father gave him an helpmeet.²

I’d like to share a perspective from John Milton’s Paradise Lost that fully resonates with my soul.

Much like President Clark, Milton describes the beauty of the Garden and the variety of animals. However, he goes into more detail on his perception of Adam’s frustration and loneliness. In his account, Adam watches the interplay between the animals and communicates with them as best he can. However, Adam concludes something is drastically amiss. Milton wrote:

They rejoice
Each with their kind, lion with lioness;
So fitly them in pairs thou hast combin’d;
Much less can bird with beast, or fish with fowl
So well converse, nor with the ox the ape;
Worse then can man with beast, and least of all.³

In other words, Adam is saying, “What’s wrong with this picture?”

Milton goes on to suggest that God delayed the introduction of Eve until Adam could fully appreciate her. Seeing that Adam is now ready for the introduction of Eve, God describes what is going to happen next. I love Milton’s description of what Eve would mean to Adam:

What next I bring shall please thee, be assur’d,
Thy likeness, thy fit help, thy other self,
Thy wish exactly to thy heart’s desire.⁴

“Thy fit help”? No, this doesn’t mean she would be in good shape. It means she would be a match, a complement, a counterpart, even his “other self.”

Finally, Eve stood before him, and she exceeded his highest expectations. He had never seen anything like her in the garden. Milton continues:

Under his forming hands a creature grew,
Manlike, but different sex, so lovely fair,
That what seem’d fair in all the world, seem’d now
Mean, or in her summ’d up, in her contain’d,
And in her looks, which from that time infus’d
Sweetness into my heart, unfelt before.⁵

I hope Milton will forgive me for adding my opinion that the “sweetness” Adam felt, which was “unfelt before,” was much more than that which was generated by Eve’s physical appearance. Those feelings flowing into him had as their source her wellspring. His feelings were the direct result of standing in front of one of the daughters of heavenly parents who had a divine nature different from, but complementary to, his own divine nature.

I believe the Father’s statement “It is not good that the man should be alone” (Genesis 2:18) had a much more profound meaning than the obvious biological implications. It also went further than providing Adam with “company.” Adam’s ability to obtain the purification necessary to get back into the presence of God was dependent upon his continuous association with Eve.

Remember what Adam said when Eve stood beside him for the first time: “Therefore shall a man leave his father and his mother, and shall cleave unto his wife, and they shall be one flesh” (Abraham 5:18).

Many years after the creation of Adam and Eve, Paul said, “Nevertheless neither is the man without the woman, neither the woman without the man, in the Lord” (1 Corinthians 11:11).

In the Doctrine and Covenants we read:

In the celestial glory there are three heavens or degrees;

And in order to obtain the highest, a man must enter into this order of the priesthood [meaning the new and everlasting covenant of marriage];

And if he does not, he cannot obtain it. [D&C 131:1–3]

Why can’t he obtain it? It’s not just because he didn’t obey a celestial commandment. It’s because he didn’t become a celestial being. There is a limit to our spiritual development as long as we are single. There is a spiritual development that can only be obtained when a man and a woman join their incomplete selves into a complete couple. Just as conception requires the physical union of male and female, perfection requires the union of the very souls of male and female.

Elder Richard G. Scott has said:

In the Lord’s plan, it takes two—a man and a woman—to form a whole. Indeed, a husband and wife are not two identical halves, but a wondrous, divinely determined combination of complementary capacities and characteristics.⁶

Men and women can accomplish marvelous things alone. However, they are incomplete until united intellectually, emotionally, physically, and, most important, spiritually.

The world we live in has gone awry with its focus on the physical part of the male and female relationship. If there is too much focus on the physical, the vital areas of intellectual, emotional, and spiritual union are not being placed in an environment where they can flourish and grow. Our current society is so obsessed with “making love” that they are not developing a complete relationship that would enable them to “express love.”

Since melding our divine natures is a necessary element in bringing about perfection, we must guard against any deterioration of those natures. Sisters, keep in mind anything that detracts from your divine nature should be avoided. You live in a time when you have more opportunities and options available to you than any other women have had throughout the history of mankind. Some of these options will complement your God-given natures. Others will chip away at it. Some things will make you strong. Others will make you hard. Some will increase your spiritual sensitivity. Others will separate you from the Spirit.

If the world keeps chipping away at the divine nature of women, it is probable that our relationships in marriage will not bring about the sanctification necessary for exaltation or, as a minimum, the process will be delayed.

I express my love and appreciation to my wife. She is an example of one who has retained her eternal nature through 47 years of marriage, six children, 29 grandchildren, and putting up with me.

Wearing that eternal nature well, she has supported me as a General Authority for 25 years. I could not have served nor would I have been qualified to serve without her love and support. She has been the crucial key to the metamorphosis I desperately needed to become worthy and able to serve.

Her eternal nature and destiny was never clearer to me than at the temple marriage of our youngest son. I have had the sacred honor of performing the temple marriages of all six of our children, and they along with their spouses were worthy to be in attendance on this occasion.

Prior to the ceremony as I spoke of sacred things, I looked at my wife, who was seated next to our son. My spiritual eyes were opened, and I saw her shining in all of her glory as she basked in the warmth of having joy and rejoicing in her posterity. She was radiant. I saw before me a priestess, queen, and goddess. There is absolutely nothing the world can offer that could come close to the fulfillment she was feeling. There was no accomplishment in the world she could have attained that would have made me love her more or be more proud of her efforts. Her eternal nature was then and is now still intact.

We commonly hear the phrase “Men have the priesthood and women have been given the blessing of procreation.” Without perfection, neither assignment meets the full measure of its creation. After perfection comes the ultimate role of god or goddess. These are eternal roles in which one continues to complement the other throughout all eternity.

It is the marriage ceremony in the temple in which husband and wife receive the power to perfect their relationship and, thereby, obtain their exaltation.

Elder John A. Widtsoe put it this way:

Modern revelation sets forth the high destiny of those who are sealed for everlasting companionship. They will be given opportunity for a greater use of their powers. That means progress. They will attain more readily to their place in the presence of the Lord; they will increase more rapidly in every divine power; they will approach more nearly to the likeness of God; they will more completely realize their divine destiny. And this progress is not delayed until life after death. It begins here, today, for those who yield obedience to the law.⁷

I emphasize that the power coming down from heaven on those married in the temple by the holy priesthood cannot alone bring about the progress mentioned by Elder Widtsoe. It takes the righteous interplay of male and female.

I like the Quaker proverb “Thee lift me and I’ll lift thee and we’ll both ascend together.”⁸

What will happen when we finally “ascend together”? I can put it no better than did one of the great women in our history, Eliza R. Snow, who said:

When I leave this frail existence,
When I lay this mortal by,
Father, Mother, may I meet you
In your royal courts on high?
Then, at length, when I’ve completed
All you sent me forth to do,
With your mutual approbation
Let me come and dwell with you.⁹

Sisters, I testify that when you stand in front of your heavenly parents in those royal courts on high and look into Her eyes and behold Her countenance, any question you ever had about the role of women in the kingdom will evaporate into the rich celestial air, because at that moment you will see standing directly in front of you, your divine nature and destiny. I say this in the name of Jesus Christ, amen.

Notes

1. “The Family: A Proclamation to the World,” Ensign, November 1995, 102.

2. J. Reuben Clark: Selected Papers: On Religion, Education, and Youth, ed. David H. Yarn, Jr. (Provo: Brigham Young University Press, 1984), 59–60.

3. John Milton, Paradise Lost (1667), ed. David Hawkes (New York: Barnes & Noble Classics, 2004), 249; book VIII, lines 392–97.

4. Milton, Paradise, 251; book VIII, lines 449–51.

5. Milton, Paradise, 253; book VIII, lines 470–75.

6. “The Joy of Living the Great Plan of Happiness,” Ensign, November 1996, 73–74.

7. John A. Widtsoe, Evidences and Reconciliations (Salt Lake City: Bookcraft, 1960), 300.

8. See John Townsend Trowbridge, A Story of the “Barefoot Boy” (1877):

If thee’ll lift me while I lift thee,

We shall go up together!

9. “O My Father,” Hymns, 1985, no. 292, verse 4; text by Eliza R. Snow.

Falling for my English Major

2010-03-23T15:49:00.001-07:00

This poem started out in a different way; it was originally meant to be a 6-month dating anniversary and one-year meeting anniversary present for my English-major honey. We had a class together winter 2009, and our first conversation basically consisted of my challenging his choice of major--a major to which I myself was converted by spring of the same year.
Anway--I was pleasantly surprised with these skewed results.

Falling for My English Major

I was minding my own business, really,

“What will you do with an English degree?”

Daddy’s little parrot.

And yet I was falling fast—not for his serious green eyes

and curious half laugh,

or even his memory for Robert Frost’s rhyme,

But for (even) older men:

Arsenic-tongued Edgar Allen and dear William’s dreary drawls,

Joseph’s tortured rhetoric (through his beautifully thick accent).

Spring is the season of lovers, they say,

And I met Robert and Lord Alfred,

Walt and Henry David, Mark (my Sammy) and Charley D.

I was reacquainted with Willy’s wonderful wit and wisdom,

but breathed last at John, dearest, sightless John,

who saw more than I had ever glimpsed:

I had never loved before.

And of course Clive and John Ronny Reuel

Already held my heart, happy imprisonment—

I was dr

opping, plu

mmeting, head-over-he

els and toes-over-nose,

My parents were worried, my peace of mind shattered—

Every thought, every breath, every tingling touch of thick, creamy paper

was a blessing—and a curse—and I found myself, me!

cursing and crying and thanking the stars at 2 am,

reading those last few, blurred words through salty adoration.

It could not be ignored.

“I’m yours,”

I whispered to the green form which promised all my dreams a reality.

“What?” the English major counselor squawked,

“Sorry,” I said, and signed.

key for non english majors: edgar allen poe, william faulkner, joseph conrad, robert browning, alfred lord tennyson, walt whitman, henry david thoreau, mark twain (samuel clemens), charles dickens, william shakespeare, John Milton, C. S. lewis and J. r.r. tolkien.

.

GF Ninja

2010-03-03T11:14:00.000-08:00

The group around me ambles into the dimly-lit, richly-furnished room without a second thought—but I am immediately on guard.

I am ever vigilant, utilizing all senses to take in every detail:

busy, uniformed staff (whose smiles I meet with a steely glare),

savory smells (which I resist instinctively, habit honed by fatal experience),

seemingly immaculate tables (I check for crumb residue),

friendly voices and laughter (which will be silenced in a moment)…

I am a gluten-free ninja.

Walking into a restaurant with celiac disease is like traversing a mine field while riding an elephant. Hidden dangers beset the GF diner at every turn, and the menacing scene is made even more dangerous by the ignorant deception perpetuated by inexperienced cooks, chefs, waiters and waitresses, hosts, bus boys and even fellow diners.

“How about this place? It looks good,” my blind date, dinner group, girl’s-night-out-posse, boss or extended family member asks naively.

HA! I squelch a shout of laughter and my instinctive “good if you like pain” reply.

Even the bland exterior screams danger:

Ø no GF logo on the front window (the UK's universal wheat-free signal),

Ø popular, neon-lit logo above the door (indicative of a malicious chain restaurant),

Ø music with an accordion (turn and run!),

Ø a name that has any word that reminds you of your piano classes (forte, piano, bravo, ---isimo)

Ø a waiting line (sure sign of harried waiters).

Unfortunately, even when I go to dinner with supposedly experienced buddies—life-long friends, family members, beloved boyfriend—I sometimes get stuck with a perilous restaurant choice. When dining out, I have to get creative, crafty, observant, diplomatic, and even sneaky. I’m on a mission to eat.

This (terrifying) trip, the oblivious (but adorable) boyfriend wanders off while I’m still marking a perimeter around our table, checking the salt shaker for crumbs and scrutinizing sauce labels.

He returns with 'secret intelligences',

"Dia? Oh, there you are, under the tablecloth. Hey, guess what, I already asked them what foods have flour. They said you can have pretty much the whole menu and the whole buffet! Isn't that great?"

I lose my ninja cool for just a moment, smacking my head with my hand (not his head—I resisted) as I rolled my eyes (these actions not recommended simultaneously if a ninja wishes to retain single vision acuity).

Well, even Jackie Chan gets stuck with the dumb blond sometimes.

"Ssssssshhhhh!" I hiss. "Get low, and be quiet.”

It’s too late—he’s already blown my cover.

Our waitress bustles over, offering menus and appetizers all around. She’s either brave, masochistic or cruel to agree to come to our table, as she’s been pre-warned (and dealing with the cross-examination of a gluten-free ninja is hardly for the faint-hearted). I resist the depression urges which are served alongside the fluffy white dinner rolls (and the sneaking desire to start flinging them, shuriken style, at our fellow diners enjoying seven-layer lasagna or garlic bread), and look for the least dangerous thing on the menu as I try to convert the waitress to my side.

“Gluten. No, not glucose. No, not just in bread—it’s in white bread too, yes.”

The menu is a breeding ground of malevolent meal choices. Obvious traps, of course, include the sandwiches, rolls, wraps and croutons and cake, cookies and brownie options, but more subtle evils lurk quietly between the lines. Breading, seasonings and sauces strike without warning, and cross-contamination while cooking is a constant threat (only truly avoided when the waitress is also your significant other or mother).

After I’ve begged, bullied, bribed and beseeched our waitress for gluten-free options, she goes to “ask the chef” (coffee/smoke/look-up-glucose-on-Wikipedia break). As soon as she leaves, I commence cross-examination with every staff member in the area, take a mental survey of other diners’ plates and their possible gluten-free options, and undertake part four of the “Dessert Storm” plan beta. I check for nutritional information behind the front desk and then on my laptop online. I write a detailed list of menu items in order of increasing risk and potential hidden hazards. I remind myself that a gluten-free ninja is always prepared with travel snacks in her purse, so I will not starve.

Finally I get to order, off the (surprise!!) gluten-free menu! I can’t complain: when my grilled, stuffed chicken breast (“ask for no stuffing, dressing, breading, sauce, rice, beans, vegetables, chips or seasoning”) and loaded baked potato (“ask for no topping”) finally come, I chew through them with all the gusto of a soldier downing his hundredth M.R.E.. A ninja never complains, however, and I am honestly just relieved to be eating something that seems safe—although CONSTANT VIGILANCE is, of course, still necessary (as is evident when she hands me a packet of oyster crackers… Thanks, lady, that puts me at ease).

At the end of the meal, I order a delectable dessert (“ask for no brownie, no sauce, no cookie-dough, no happiness, no enjoyment and no hope”) consisting of a single mint leaf on a plate and sit back to watch my date finish his dinner, having escaped successfully from mortal danger (until the after dinner mint at the front desk on our way out).

When he finishes, he sits back too, and looks at me contentedly—offering a truly perfect conclusion to the meal:

“Wasn’t that relaxing? I love a meal away from the kitchen. Check please!”

Reality Check:

To make sure you have a fun (if not calm) experience as a GF ninja at restaurants, eat before, know your allergens, bring a good attitude and your own condiments and have the diplomacy skills of a UN delegate.

Defense of Anniversaries

2010-02-03T23:58:00.000-08:00

Though it may seem quite silly

to write a short ditty

on the merits of anniversAries,

there's a serious purpose

to this eye-rolling circus--

yes, I know some think quite the contrary.

Most boys just don't get it

why that one day should merit

such ridiculous hype and elation,

but a gal has her reasons!

and when her guy can't sees-ems,

she'll expound without (much) altercation.

It's that special day's advent

which reminds us we may'nt

treat our sweethearts or lovers like old news,

Yes, we should do without it--

but as all will soon admit,

Daily life only teaches to abuse.

All high-minded ambition

tossed aside as tuition

or rent, food and diapers pile higher,

And before we turn 'round,

we'll find that we've drowned

in quotidian--put out the fire.

In short: the perfect advance

of a practical romance

is a reminder that we really care,

So try to remember

that-some-day in... December?

Just think of it, men, as a dare.

Couldn't-Be-Easier GF Truffles

2009-12-03T07:01:00.000-08:00

Melt together:
Half a jar of peanut butter
A bag of chocolate chips

Stir in a container of whipped cream.
Let it set in the fridge for three hours.

Scoop out of the mixture with a melon ball thing.
Roll the balls in powdered sugar and place on wax paper.

Stick the tray back in the fridge.

That's all, folks!

Restaurant in Denver!

2009-12-02T18:28:00.001-08:00

Tokyo Joe's is a fast, healthy restaurant with a neat envirornment and very knowledgable, friendly service. The food is fine; not for those who like Americanized Chinese, as it is very lean and green. Menu includes "make your own bowl" with rice, meat and veggie choices, lettuce wraps and various other usual Chinese fare.

It is also VERY gluten-free friendly; they offer GF soy sauce AND teriaki sauce and even offered to cook my tofu separately to keep it wheat-free.

I can't TELL you how exciting it is to get to eat a sauce on something when going out to eat! YAY!

Identification, Please

2009-12-02T17:44:00.000-08:00

Cami and Tasha dropped me off at the airport on Friday morning reaaa--aaaally early. I rather worriedly handed them the keys to Bertha ("Road trip! road trip!" Tasha was singing under her breath as she offered a guileless smile and "Have fun!") and made my way into the deserted airport.

Seriously, I was pretty much THE ONLY PERSON THERE. I weaved my way through the security tape feeling pretty stupid because there was NO ONE in line. I considered the technique Shrek employed when walking up to Prince Farquad's castle (through the tape, instead of around)--but the security guard was already giving me the evil eye.

I offered him my best smile and toss of the blond curls as I handed him my ticket and driver's license. He was not amused.

"Is your name Diondra or Dia?"
"Ohhh, Dia is my nickname!" I giggled back.

"Well, your ticket here says Dia Darcey on it, so you're going to have to produce some ID that HAS that name on it, or I can't let you on the flight."
"Uh....huh?" I tried the hair toss again.
He was stone. "Not gonna cut it, honey."

Dang, I gotta think fast! None of my IDs have DIA on them; it's practically a made up name!! However, Mrs. Sabey, the generous purchaser of my ticket, had unknowingly put my pseudonym down in my flight information, so now I was stuck.

"Well, handsome, let me see what I have here," I said with a slow wink as I opened my purse and stared into it in a blind panic.

My mind was working furiously and, as it tends to do in emergency situations, completely nonsensically: Maybe I could hit him over the head with the purse and make a break for it! No, a better plan would be to loudly require my legal counsel. Or try to convince him I don't speak English--Ooo, wait, that I'm a long lost LOVER who doesn't speak English! OK, um, fake a heart attack! Warn of an impending stampede!

Just when I was on the brink of a breakthrough ("I know! Confuse him with a tap dance routine!") my eye fell upon salvation: my BYU ID!! Goodness knows why I decided to bring it to Colorado or why I put my name on it as DIA in the first place, but praise be! There it was, and I pulled it out with a screech of pure victory, "EEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!!"

The security guard dropped his keys.

"Ooops, sorry," I practically yelled, still exulting, "but I FOUND ONE!" I slapped it on his security stand with all the triumph I could muster.

He looked it over carefully.
And his steely eyes shifted back up to mine.

"I need another one."

My jaw hit the floor; no, no. Surely not. ANOTHER ONE?!

I tried one last act of diplomacy and laughed gently, "Wait, seriously. You need another ID BESIDES this one-- this one, which says my name on it AND has a matching picture?" I formed a contented smile onto my face and attempted to breath normally.

"...Yup, if the names are different, I have to confirm with two IDs, not just one."

That's it. I was DONE with the "pretty, naive, possibly-Scandinavian traveling girl" charade.

This was war.

We faced each other, still the only two souls in the whole airport atrium.
A tumbleweed blew past and I swear I could hear a faint echo of the theme from "The Good, the Bad and the Ugly" from some forgotten airport speaker.
I stared into his dark, emotionless eyes and felt for the comforting, cold metal of my wallet (my wallet really is metal, you guys).

His eyebrow twitched.

I drew, faster than the eye can follow, and twitched my wallet open with a thumb. I scanned the names on my cards as they flew by like the jet plane I should've been on: Oklahoma Central Credit Union: Diondra Elizabeth Darcey--Healthcare: Diondra E Darcey--Insurance: Darcey, Diondra--Random Walmart giftcard--Summit County Library: scrawled signature--Red Cross: Diondra E Darcey------wait.
Miss Dia Darcey.

I read it, then read it again, "Miss Dia Darcey... MISS DIA DARCEY?!?!"

VICTORY! I threw the card--the blessed card which had saved me many times before in moments of transportation terror--onto the vanquished security guard's crumpled form and pumped my arms in the air with a howl of animal abandon:

"THANK YOU, TRIPLE A!"

I did have one parting word for my defeated foe, which I offered as I picked up my duffel bag and tossed my hair back over my shoulders, "In this world, there are two types of people, my friend..." I continued Clint's timeless quote as I stepped forward onto the security platform and tossed my bags into the X-ray machine:

"Those with loaded guns, and those who dig."

Unfortunately, THOSE security people took me seriously ("GUN? WHERE?! CODE RED!!!")...

.

O'er the Land of Fat-Free?

2009-11-16T21:18:00.000-08:00

Dia Darcey
Dr. Holland
Sociology 112
16 November 2009

Don't take this too seriously, kids; it was a quick opinion essay for a class.

The facts are clear: America is getting wider, and not from sea to shining sea. More Americans are overweight than ever before—a whopping two of three adults and almost one of three children. Overweight people are more likely to suffer from high blood pressure, heart disease, diabetes, high cholesterol and debilitating stress on joints and bones; the condition is definitely no walk in the park.

The obvious, looming question about obesity in America is why. Can we point the finger of blame at the school system for only providing sugary soft drinks and cheesy fried snacks for lunch? Can we malign the government for neglecting to inform us of health risks before it was too late? Or can we only hang our heads in shame, muttering that it must be a late offshoot of McManifest Destiny (now bigger than ever!) and we, like our great-great-great-grandparents, are just trying to increase America’s magnitude? Such a huge problem could never have stemmed from one origin, and it is ignorant to blame a single factor (like fast food) for these shocking statistics. Also, it is impossible to blame only the individual for their obesity because we are so affected by the society around us—and the occurrence of obesity is higher in African-American and Hispanic populations, which would imply that they have less self control than Caucasians or Asians. Several of the most basic causes of the rapid, recent increase in the occurrence of obesity in America are the breakdown of family structure and a general and increasing ignorance of nutrition and biology, exacerbated by a healthy capitalist economy.

The family structure provides innumerable benefits to individuals and society; many of these benefits relate to weight management. Close families spend time together playing—and it’s awfully hard to get an entire family onto a computer. Outside activities and play have decreased exponentially in the lives of children, perhaps because their parents simply don’t have time to encourage creative and active play. Eating together as a family reduces the calories which would be consumed by each member eating individually, especially if the meal is home-made and includes plenty of vegetables and fruits. Family relations also provide needed education to children about healthy eating habits.

The general ignorance of and apathy toward essential nutrition facts has worsened in recent years which has aided the media and food companies in making a couple bucks while everyone gets a little rounder. Even the calorie is not understood by five out of six roommates at Regency #309, and surely the statistics aren’t much better for the rest of America. The “big, bad” media and food companies cannot be blamed for making food cheaper and more attractive—that’s what the competition of capitalism encourages, usually providing us with excellent results—even if they use high fructose corn syrup and celebrity promos to do it. The problem results when these two circumstances combine and ignorant consumers cook Hamburger Helper for a “healthy” family meal or provide “low-cal” (but high everything else) soda for refreshment.

Whether the obesity problem busting America’s Bible Belt and clogging up the Continental Divide lays with society or the individual or, most likely, some combination of the two, it is ballooning to ridiculous proportions. As the occurrence of obesity has increased, the average life expectancy for an American citizen has turned begun to decrease. Only a return to the close relationships of the family and a revolution in nutritional education could even begin to contain this epidemic which is truly affecting everyone in the home of the broad.

Little Girl Dreaming

2009-11-14T13:25:00.000-08:00

In morning musings, I’ve agency:
And when my mind runs wild
I can remind it,
Gently, Chiding,
And lead it as I would a child
To things at hand, back
To book or stove or
even prayer,
My hand is patient, waiting kindly,
but firm, as
My little-girl thoughts hang back;
She is rambunctious—as children should be—
But comes when I ask.

In afternoon and ev’n, too
I am mistress of my mind and
Would I were a harder mistress!
Sometimes the child skips outside
Without a hand to stop her—and I must take a run
With her round the yard, falling in a heap at the end in a tangle of limbs, laughing
Before returning
Brushing off smells of the cold and grass
To order, reason, older things.

But nighttime thoughts are hers
And she spends them outside: joyous liberty.
Why?! The now freed child
Can run, rampant, rollicking,
Without reproach
Or reminder
To focus on the task here, now.
And it is beautiful to watch her run.

I’m thankful she stays—well-train’ed dear—
Within the bounds of my picket fence
I’ve built so carefully
At the edges of even unconscious thought.
But I still wake, not shameful,
Exasperated!
For the child is far from satiated from her joyous night of rambling—
No, she wants to explore anew!
And I, woman, must choose to tug her gently
Back into the ordered house.
Though she is pleading and pretty and persuades
So invitingly.

Sew Cute II

2009-09-30T13:04:00.000-07:00

These aprons are pretty much the most adorable thing ever--and REVERSIBLE.
Mom and I made them this summer (because... we can't just have a normal vacation??).

We also made:
This . Took. Forever. There's actually still a lot of hand-stitching I have to finish on it...

-

Alyssa and Dia's Totally Random, Entirely Exhausting and In All Ways Awesome Saturday

2009-09-26T21:50:00.000-07:00

------------------------------------------------------------

Alyssa and Dia's
Totally Random, Entirely Exhausting and In All Ways Awesome
Saturday

The day began with the by-some-dreaded and by-one-(Dia)-adored cleaning checks.
We scraped, mopped, wiped and pine-sol'd from six thirty am right until the fearful check--only to watch the manager open the door, walk to the back of the apartment, turn, open the fridge, and walk right back out the front door as she mumbled, "Looks good, you passed."
"WHAT?!" hollered Alyssa, hands chapped from hours of scrubbing within the unchecked dishwasher, freezer and cupboards.
"THAT'S SO DUMB!" agreed Ashley, who had spent at least thirty minutes sucking fumes in the ill-ventilated shower whilst cleaning.
"At least our apartment's clean!" chirped Dia happily. "I LOVE cleaning checks!"

After everyone finished beating on Dia, Alyssa and the aforementioned scapegoat got in the car and raced to Wal-mart. Unfortunately, aformentioned scapegoat forgot to bring in her cell phone (big surprise), and Alyssa was unable to reach and or find her when she was done shopping. While Alyssa contemplated asking a cashier to broadcast a message (again ...this HAS happened before), "Dia Darcey, please meet your mommy at the front of the store. Dia Darcey, please meet your mommy at the front," Dia was ogling over the prices of watches.
Although she did eventually find one that would work for timing runs (at least, would work better than Dia's previous method of timing runs: glancing at the oven clock before leaving and then trying to subtract minutes when she got back--which method often resulted in such exciting and ridiculous moments as, "Wow! I just ran a mile and a half in FOUR MINUTES! Wait... carry the two, subtract the three... I mean fourteen minutes.").

After Dia and Alyssa were finally reunited (and it feels so good), Dia dropped Alyssa off at home and drove to Hebrew choir, which is an odd enough experience when there are more than three singers. As the attendance was frighteningly low, Dia somehow was asked and subsequently (in a fit of insanity) agreed to sing a solo for the celebration of Yon Kippur the following day (in less than 30 hours) (in front of all the Hebrew students at BYU) (... in Hebrew).

V'al kulom eloha s'lihos
s'lah lonu m'hal lonu kaper lonu
O Lord of forgiveness, forgive us for all our sins.

At this point, Alyssa was back home, in shock herself--she'd received two MORE letters from missionaries, which made FOUR in TWO DAYS. She was thus newly christened,
"The Distraction."

Meanwhile (back on the farm--I mean, back in the car), Dia was having distractions of her own. In the middle of exulting over the low prices of fruit at Buy Low ("Five BUCKS?! For half my body weight in MELON?! So aweso --" CRUNCH), she backed into another car. She parked and got out of the car already apologizing--for no need!
The cars (well, the OTHER car, at least) looked fine, but even crazier, the lady wasn't angry. Not only "not angry," but she was happy!!

"Oh, HI! Hey, it's no big deal, this happens just by accident all the time!! I didn't see you, and you didn't see me, and you know cars just pull out so quick you can't see, and this car's 12 years old now so as long as it passes inspection I don't even mind a few bumps and bruises! Let me tell you about the time I got THIS scratch on it when I backed up into my son's pickup truck..."

She actually offered the stunned collegiate blond a hug at the end of the conversation and left with a joyful benediction of "Go Cougars!"

Dia returned home, still "well"-shocked, and found Alyssa up to the wrists in a deep blue liquid. She was dying shirts for her soccer team--an honest and harmless enough endeavor, when not paired with two such devious, creative and thrifty young ladies!!
There was so much leftover dye...

we probably could've dyed the kitchen floor blue if we'd thought of it in time. As it was, we dyed (or tried to dye): fifteen shirts, a white bathroom rug, Dia's tennis shoes, Alyssa's hands, an extra towel, Jasmyn's failed tie-dye shirt, a couple locks of blond hair and pretty much anything else that would hold still. If we owned a Pomeranian...

After our dyeing adventures, we headed to the BYU football game (properly attired with stained hands and hair).

The heat was unendurable (but we... endured...?) but we doggedly clapped and cheered, rose and shouted our Cougars on until halftime. At exactly 5:45, we rose righteously from our bleacher bench to make our way to the Marriott Center, as the Relief Society Broadcast was showing at 6. Though we left a bit half-heartedly, we knew we were doing the right thing as Relief Society sisters and, as we left the stadium, refused the temptation of an re-entrance-stamp. "No," we cried, "We're going to go watch the Relief Society Broadcast! Do not try to shift us from the iron rod! We will be unshaken! Stalwart! Brave! We shall not falter! We cannot be moved! True to the truth! We will spend our Saturday night in the company of the Relief Society's appointed servants! We will--(cheering from the stadium)---GO COUGARS, C'MON! RUUUUN!"
Alright, so we were a little attached to Mammon that night. But really, who schedules football during the Relief Society Broadcast? Men. That's who.

Sexism stowed and back to the story.

Imagine our dismay, our horror when we finally reached the Marriott Center to find a notice:
"The Relief Society Broadcast will not be shown at the Marriott Center. It will be showing in the -----blah----blah---some-other-buildings---- and on KBYU at 8 pm this evening."

"IT'S GOING TO BE ON TV TONIGHT? WHY AREN'T WE AT THE FOOTBALL GAME?!"

Alyssa and I dashed back to the field of victory only to find that the foregone reentrance stamps were not just for show or school spirit--you actually needed one to get back into the game.

Our righteous intentions smashed into teeny bits, we held our heads high (ish) and screamed ourselves hoarse outside for a while (we had to make sure the players could still hear us!), then realized we were on the brink of thirst-ation (not one of my favorite realizations. "Oh, it's Saturday!" or "I already finished this homework!" or even "The milk's still good ...somehow!" are all WAY better) (why isn't there a word for "death by thirst"?).

We bought waters at Citgo and concluded that Dasani was probably the best thing on Earth (and when we say, "the best thing on Earth," we mean the best) and walked to a friend's house for dinner. He'd graciously offered to cook, but when we reached his dorm, we realized there was a problem.

What do you do if your gluten-free when the cook's in the middle of making spaghetti??
You exchange alternately horrified, at-a-loss and hilarious looks with your roommate every time the cook turns around, that's what you do. Looks that mean something like,
(silently) "SPAGHETTI? What are we going to do?"
(still silently) "I don't know! Doesn't he know?"
(very silently) "I'm sure he forgot! What do I DO?"
(you get the picture) "...This is HILARIOUS!"

THEN you try to find a way to artfully slip it into the conversation, such as, "Dang, I didn't come prepared for spaghetti. Do you think I have time to dash home and grab some of mine?"
I have to say, though, the embarrassment of the cook when he realized and the awkwardness of having to bring it up were totally worth the volume of hilarity Alyssa and I exchanged without an audible word.

After the spaghetti scare was solved and we enjoyed a five-part rendition of "Brown-Eyed Girl" accompanied by ukulele and African drum by roommates of said friend, Alyssa and I realized we needed to run home-- in the dark-- across campus-- without shoes in order to make it in time for the broadcast. Well, the "without shoes" part we just decided on because it would be more fun.

The results:

After the Relief Society Broadcast, we rested our tired toes in the lovely pool--then fell into bed, finally completing our wonderful, ridiculous, all-good very fun day.

.

Sew Cute

2009-08-28T07:39:00.000-07:00

We've been sewing like madwomen for days~ more results coming up!

Big, Fat, Brown Sugar Disasters

2009-08-11T09:45:00.000-07:00

Brown Sugar Muffins:
Sounds good, doesn't it? Tuesday morning my cousin Cami and I woke up already salivating for these delectable morsels of sugar-rushing starch.
Cami took care of most of the not-flour part. Soda, butter, egg (catch that shell), vanilla, salt, milk and grimace at an entire cup of brown sugar. Then she handed me the bowl for my magical gluten-free replacement skills.
Yeah, sure.

I substituted about a half cup of tapioca starch, three fourths of a cup of sorghum flour, some corn starch, a tiny bit of potato flour and of course xanthum gum for the two cups of flour. Then I dumbly handed the bowl back to Cami to stir.

I said NOTHING about "make sure they're thick enough before you put them in," or "the consistency of GF muffins should be the same as gluten muffins." Oh, the pain that we could have avoided!

So Cami fills the muffin tins to the brim with too liquidy-muffin liquid, I turn on the oven, and she pops them in. They look great for a few minutes...

Until...

They bubbled up and over the sides, then (somehow?!) sank in the middle of each muffin. The result was a delicious but DENSE and GOOEY inch of brown-sugar mixture in each muffin tin and a burned crust on the top of the pan. We ate what we could,

then gave up and made eggs.

Oops. Oh well, we were about due for a disaster.

.

Betty Crocker Brownie Mix Possibilities

2009-08-10T19:45:00.000-07:00

Gluten Free Chocolate Chip Berry Brownie Cream Cheese Deluxe Torte!

Best-Bet-Intructions:

Betty Crocker brownie mix

8 oz cream cheese

some eggs

some oil

some vanilla

some milk

some sugar

some chocolate chips

some raspberries

some nuts

some flexibility, courage and 3 AM giddiness

Make the brownie mix.

Beat an egg and mix it with sugar, milk, vanilla and the cream cheese.

Put those together in a 9 by 13 pan.

Add whatever else your little heart desires / your cousins throw in without your knowledge.

Cook it for about half an hour.

The BEST things in life!

2009-08-10T19:17:00.000-07:00

Chicken Noodle Soup and PB&J --all GF!!

.

Chex Love

2009-07-27T14:44:00.001-07:00

BETTY CROCKER GLUTEN FREE?!?!

2009-07-15T08:39:00.000-07:00

Ahhhhh! SO exciting: Betty Crocker cake/brownies/cookie mixes that are totally, completely GF!

GF girls beware: it is coming to the point when a GF cake made by an admirer is NOT a reason to marry him! It's becoming, dare I say it, EASY!
But still about 5 times more expensive than a normal cake mix, so maybe there IS still some significance within GF baked goods...

Hem, Hem: A Literary Essay about, You Guessed It... FOOD

2009-06-16T13:58:00.000-07:00

Forgotten Fruit

The falling fruits,
Through the still night, forsake the parent-bough,
That, in the first grey glances of the dawn,
Looks wild, and wonders at the wintry waste.
–James Thompson

It was on a recent ward temple trip that I realized that no species of food has lately been so much multiplied as the extent of pizza restaurants. Once again, the committee for the planning and accomplishment of activities forwent the possible intricacies and new delights of an extended taste pallet, instead choosing the always-safe marinara reds, limp greens and crusty browns of an always appreciated, never novel restaurant choice. Again, our limited perspective was reinforced by the mores of ease.

The college experience is an Eden of forgotten fruit. Sustenance, sleep, studying and socializing are the four necessities at college, but it is widely believed that the industrious scholar can only really focus on two or three of these objectives at a time. Nourishment’s nutrition and diversity are the first martyrs to the college cause—not only is it more time consuming to plan and create healthy meals, it’s also considered more expensive. As students count pennies and minutes, cheap chow and mindless meals are first endured, then pitied, then embraced.

Oft times, a student’s only contact with the sweet flesh of an earth-grown item is through the straw of a Jamba Juice cup. Even Emerson had a passing relationship with the vegetable, however odd (it nods to me, and I nod to them??). Though unexcited eaters are perhaps not aware of their denial of the body’s relationship with the intellect, the consequences are fixed: both mental and spiritual capacity to create and invent are crippled by a dull diet.

What good are the mental powers given man if our senses are degraded to the point at which we cannot tell Splenda from the healing dew of honey? Ease, price, the quickness of preparation—each specter with a pleasant face denies poor students the joys of taste and the rapture of real food. Months of Easy Ramen, burnt eggs and peanut butter and jelly sandwiches on store-bought bread do more than bore the body senseless; they stunt the common college student’s taste buds from a spring of growth to lifeless winter. Ah, smooth is the descent and easy the way to a damnation of taste’s progression!

What hope have we to awake slumbering students from their sleep of snacking sameness? What chance can we cherish to save students from their troubles of tide-me-over tedium? What actions must we take to alert and divert these wanderers from their paths of repetitive rations, minute-meals and green-less groceries?
Few who chew comfortably on their Hamburger Helper think what others undergo who have perhaps been as tenderly educated and have as acute sensations as themselves—but who are incapable of enjoying the same easy pleasures because of allergies, sensitivities or other disruptions of the digestive system. Could it be that these seemingly cursed consumers are blessed with the teachings of the school of experience—an institution which teaches by first exposing the student to everything they do not know?

A knowledge of good food must be bought dear by knowing ill baked goods. Only when we have experienced the absolute dark can we begin to recognize day again—and to appreciate the intricacies of light instead of stumbling around, blinded, in a bright haze of tasteless and empty foodstuffs. Desperation is the mother of all experimentation and nutritional expansion, for really, what well-fed fellow would ever look at a cow and decide to drink whatever came from …it?

For this reason, my tongue may envy the Ho-Ho thoughtlessly sucked down by some oblivious passerby, but my intellect is untouched. Though seemingly innocent Little Debby’s baked confections bestow delicious sugar rushes and delights to the purchasing student, the ease of acquisition cheapens the joy acquired from negotiations with this she-devil—and as Faustus warns, she shows herself to certainly be a hot ho (ho).

Ah, but we may well say that all the schools of cuisine are already catalogued carefully into numberless cookbooks and food magazines; nothing remains to be learned about the subject. So quothe the followers of Ptolemy and the priests before Martin Luther or Joseph Smith—the heavens are still open!

Menus are not dead. They live and change under the hands of those who would dare to experience their pages. Those who have much leisure to cook will always be enlarging the stock of recipes. Creativity surely has its costs: predictability, comfort, ease, even reason, logic, sanity and previous epistemologies—but the price is worth the product, and, more crucially, is much less than the cost of inaction.

Milton’s blossoming ambrosial fruit surely pales in comparison with my fresh banana pancakes—a product of invention, desperation, need, creativity, time and the willingness to laugh in the face of danger.

Repeated experiences may be the stuff that creates wisdom, but new experiences give new knowledge—which, when allowed to develop and evolve, becomes wisdom. Those who forget the pasta are condemned to reheat it. As a newly politically correct Cookie Monster rapped in the nineties, “Me promise that when you eat varied menu, you get more out of every meal— You need balanced diet, come on and try it, not believe how great you'll feel! Word up.”

Restaurant in Provo!

2009-05-25T18:40:00.000-07:00

Los Hermanos has a DELECTABLE gluten-free menu!

Their rice and beans have wheat in them, but they'll make you different beans in a jiffy and hold the rice without blinking.

It's on Center Street in Provo. YUM.

Bike Trails

2009-05-07T10:24:00.000-07:00

Do you ever feel like life is maybe a little too cushy?

You've been slouching around in your pajamas all day... snacking on leftover cheese sticks and the remains at the bottom of potato chip bags... the basement is so dark, you think you're losing your eyesight... you can't find your left slipper... you've watched three hours of homestarrunner.com straight... your milk's gone bad...

What to do?!

BIKE TO THE GROCERY STORE! Duh.

I was feeling a little disgusted at my inactivity last Saturday. The weather was just perfect--cool, humid, windy and beautiful, and I stared out the window in self-disgusted disgust at myself (?).

"Jennnn!!" I whined, "What am I going to DO tonight? I feel so boring!"
"I don't know," Jenn replied patiently.

Ah hah! I had just brought my bike, Henry, down to Provo. PERFECT!

I decided to bike to Buy Low and purchase cheap and healthy produce--despite my lack of bike clothes, a map, previous biking-in-traffic experience, or even a helmet.
Whatever! It would be a great wake-me-up! I put on my shorts, grabbed my wallet, and ran outside... where it was now sprinkling.

No matter! I just grabbed my highlighter-yellow hoodie ("This will keep me safe from cars!" I hollered to Jenn, who tried to care) and headed back out!

"Bye, Jenn, I'm going to go have an adventure!"
"Ok, Dia..."

My bike seat was already wet, and the pedals were a little slippery. My running-on-stupidity brain didn't care--this will be fun! The rain started really, well, raining after about a block. I threw my hood on and kept on a-riding, as the internal dialogue (well... "internal" as in, I was talking to Henry) began in earnest.

"Ummm...
This way?
...
Sure! I'm pretty sure it's in this general direction; I'm sure I can get there just fine."

"Hey, Henry? Do you think the rain is getting harder?"

"And colder?"

I was passing the duck pond and the rain was now, at least by Utahn standards, "pouring."

It's an interesting feeling, really, the sting of rain droplets on your hands and face as your feet keep slipping off the pedals and your brakes start squeeling on wet tires.

"This is kind of fun!"

I'd made it about six blocks when my brain finally kicked in.

DIA. THIS IS STUPID.
"Henry, did you hear that?"

Unfortunately it took four more blocks before I started to listen.

DIA. THIS IS STUPID. GO HOME.

"....
Uhhh, Henry? I know you're excited and everything, but, I'm thinking we should maybe turn around. I don't have a helmet on. Annnddd... I don't know where we're going. Or... where we are. And it's really cold. And wet."

Henry complained, but we turned around and made it back to the house in record time. I drove the car to Buy Low like a sane person, and got back into the now-deserved sweats when I finally got home.

"Sometimes you just gotta live a little, Jenn," I reminded her, sipping hot cocoa and searching for my left slipper.

"Sure, Dia."

That Kind of Mom

2009-03-24T18:59:00.000-07:00

" Losing one's mother would be like losing the sun" --Life of Pi

"My tummy feels funny, Mom. I'm hungry,"
I declared to a too-busy mother from the comfort of the front passenger seat. Ian was still too little to sit here, in the regal, glorified throne of antiquity from which this majestic six-year old could command armies, direct trade routes, and roll the window ALL the way down.

However, the view from the heavens contrasted a little too sharply with the usual expanse of blue-ish polyester that usually met my eyes, and all the reveling over my kingdom made me feel… besieged. Mom could empathize, as she had two minutes to get two kids to two lessons and felt a little too frantic to listen to me.

She made time to grab Cheetos at Wal-Mart. When combined with the Spaghettios we had hurriedly eaten for lunch, the chester-cheetah-emblazoned treats were a history-making carte de jour. Such treasures were unheard of in a realm where sugared cereal was outlawed and decrees like “if it didn’t come from the garden, it better be toilet paper” dealt almighty justice. The “if it rhymes with no, then guess what? NO” edict absolutely banned such treats from our menu, but today mom was just too busy. Now this, I thought whilst sucking orange fingers atop my blue-polyester perch, is paradise.

The Cheetos were scarcely chomped, however, when the bourgeoisie of my stomach decided to revolt. “I don’t feel very good” escaped my lips right before the amber remains of my dear spaggecheetos. I stared at the mess dripping from the front dash and—typical of ruling elite—started bawling. “How am I going to clean this up?” the sore-tummied child wailed—for I knew that if you did nothing else in life, you cleaned up your own mess.

“That’s what Moms are for, sweetheart”.

A dozen years later, I’m all grown up. Now I sit in the driver’s seat, I find my own food, I clean up my own messes. I’m responsible for myself! I’m going to college, I can’t have MOM coddling and babying and feeding me from 2000 miles away!
And yet, at the end of senior year I found myself bawling on my bathroom floor with a doozy of a tummy ache. This is what you want, right Dia? Independence, I think to myself just a little tiny bit sarcastically. Woot.

Right on cue, Mommy’s knock and a tray of thermometers and love came to my bathroom door.

“This is what Moms are for.”

This story isn’t finished, because I still need her. Whether she’s around or not, her lesson will always stick with me. Mom’s are for loving even if you’re messy or smelly or ugly or alone. They’re for giving all they have, all the life they have to give and then watching it walk away, telling them that they can make it on their own now, thanks. They love all the same, that’s what moms are for.

So please don’t make fun when I tell you my plans after college. Sure, I’ve always wanted to be a princess and a firefighter and a surgeon and an architect. But when I’m finished pretending, I want to do the hardest thing of all.

I want to be that kind of mom.

Hometown

2009-02-27T07:29:00.000-08:00

“And where did you say you’re from, again?” Ugh, the dreaded question. As I learned in a high school psychology course, stereotypes actually facilitate faster learning because they provide a basic structure upon which new thoughts and ideas can be constructed— but I don’t care.

I just don’t want to hear it again. “Um… Oklahoma,” I say quietly. Hopefully. Pleadingly, but it’s no use; the consequence of such a sentence is undeniable, unstoppable, unending.

“OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO! Klahoma, where the wheat… comes… wind? …um. Do you know that song?! I love that song! And you’re from Okla—”

Seriously. I just want to put my hands on both sides of their head and scream, “Actually, I had to sing that song exactly two-hundred-and-fifty-nine times in the third grade by law. By LAW!" or I would say, "As a matter of fact, I know all the words and verses—even the ones you thought were part of American the Beautiful—so well that they occasionally enter into my dreams!" or I would retort, "ACTUALLY, do you even know WHERE Oklahoma IS?!” but instead I just smile kindly, laugh gently and ask, “Did you think of that all by yourself?”

Tulsa is a large city in the northeastern corner of Oklahoma. It’s quirky, beautiful, and so much more than an over sung Rogers n’ Hammerstein tune or even a Don Williams crooner. My hometown is unique—it breathes, it grows and it hangs behind my eyelids, always waiting for a visit.

My family’s original roots are in Salt Lake City. I was only eight when we were violently replanted to the foreign land of Oklahoma, and I have never felt more out of place. Nothing in our arid, mountainous homeland could compare with the sheer volume of green that overpowered us as we stepped out of the packed pickup truck at our new home on a sultry August day. It was the amount of green—the grass was chartreuse, the trees verdant, the ferns and vines and elephant ears (the what?!) vividly emerald and jade and olive.

It was also the amount of VOLUME. The entire landscape buzzed with the sounds of a thousand wings, a million mouths, a billion busy legs crawling over luscious leaves. The green canopy filtered the squabbling and chirping sounds of huge, fluffy squirrels. Even the huge, waving ferns and brilliant redolent flowers seemed to be rejoicing noisily in the chaotic din. The whole scene was punctuated by the dependable pulse of the cicada (whatever that was).

The next thing that hit us, I’m sure, was the heat. The term “wave” received new meaning as we drowned in the high tide of humidity. We gulped for breath, the saturated air trying to enter our desiccated lungs like a sumo wrestler trying to get through the turnstile for Splash Mountain.

Our bodies somehow did not protest the change; rather, skin exulted in the wonderfully wet and unbearably boiling climate and began to relax, unwind and decompose, back to its natural state. The skin’s natural state is a large pool of sweat.

Though the first impression on these delicate desert blooms was drippy, my family surmounted the challenge. Instead of wilting, we flourished. We put down new roots and feelers and shoots; we learned all we could in order to survive, even enjoy, our new surroundings. We observed the behavioral patterns of the fox in our front yard and learned how to sneak up on the red hawk in the big hackberry.

Life filled our pool on steamy summer nights, and we learned how to pinpoint a tiny peeping frog in the dark by the sound of his pipes. We also learned to never reach into the pool skimmer without checking it first (snakes like chlorine), and shaking out shoes and boots (use your imagination). We learned how to distinguish a deadly brown recluse from a harmless wolf spider (the recluse is the one that lives in your BED) and the basic guidelines for approaching a stranded turtle (if it’s smaller than you and doesn’t bite the scout, your younger brother, you’re golden. Go ahead and throw it in the trunk). Curiosity and courage overcame the family’s original worries and we soon dove right in and tried things that make other families shudder: raising a scorpion, ducks, a couple red-eared sliders, two or three blue-tailed skinks and four beautiful tarantulas.

On one heavy twilight when even the stars were enveloped in the sticky, smothering blanket of heat, another alien aspect of Oklahoma came pouring into our lives. Oh, that first rainstorm! Warm drops of jubilant life released the landscape from its agonizing heat, bathed the blistering driveways and houses and baptized the horizon anew. We were sent out in our swimsuits, appreciative Martians ogling and splashing in the everyday miracle that the natives didn't seem to notice.

In the winter, rain came in a frozen and much less gentle form. Even before the television’s pronouncement of “school’s out,” the gunshot sounds of collapsing trees in the yard announced the ice storm and rendered sleep impossible. Similar to our familiar snowfall, ice fell in a sheet. It covered the lawn and streets and cars and maybe even the cat if you left her out last night, but a closer look revealed that this too was a completely new experience. Every tree limb, every leaf, every delicate tendril of life was encapsulated, caught in time, captured inside a perfect layer of shimmering ice.

The most infamous and ominous feature of Tulsa crept in occasionally on Tuesday afternoons and Sunday nights—odd and anxious spring days when the rain had a dangerous roar and the clouds looked a little funny. The family huddled inside around a tiny television as the merciless hail started tormenting the roof. Natives told us you didn’t really have to worry until the sky turned green and since that occurrence was surely too foreign to even comprehend, our fears were assuaged. But we were wrong—I can tell you. It does turn green.

Tornadoes haunted my nightmares for weeks that first winter. Too many classmates had shared the stories of destruction, and someone (why???) somewhere had let me watch Twister. My fears were realized that first spring night when the rain began. The rest of the family geared up halfheartedly—shoes in the bathroom, mirror off the wall, emergency radio and flashlight charged and wound: the bare essentials. I moved stuffed animals, studied emergency plans and searched for the outside pets with feverish intensity that resulted from absolute fear. When the hail finally stopped that night and an eerie silence began echoing over the lawn, up the driveway and into the house—the truly dangerous sign of a twister—I’m sure I was beyond anxiety. My mother noticed my anguish as we all piled into the bathroom “just in case,” and she pulled the kids close and grinned.

“No matter what happens to the house or car or our things,” she told us, “We’ll be just fine. We’re together. Now let’s count how many times Dad asks if he can go outside and get some pictures.”

By the next spring, we had shed our frightened outsider tendencies and the bathroom sanctuary. When the weather report sounded doomsday this time, we all rushed outside with the real natives to watch. Now, hail in April is a miracle, not an indicator of destruction, and tornadoes are an adventure.

Outside on the front porch, sweltering and freezing air intermitently rush around us as we revel in the beauty and power of God’s hand at work in Tulsa, Oklahoma.

Flourless Friendship!

2009-02-22T22:13:00.000-08:00

Craig and Alex:

two boys in our ward who enjoy long-boarding, slack-lining, ultimate tumbling, soccer, frisbee, lip syncing (not really), snow-boarding...

and cooking gluten-free peanut butter cookies!!!

These two WONDERFUL friends brought over a couple plates (one burned, one perfect) with smiles and stories. Apparently they checked all the ingredients online--even the soap they used to sanitize dishes and hands (or at least, they thought about the soap), left the cookies in the oven for a while wondering why they weren't cooking (it wasn't on), and then forgot one pan was in the oven and left the apartment for too long (those turned out a little crispy).

I still can't believe that these friends were kind enough to think of me and work so hard to make something so delicious and GLUTEN FREE!

Coffee Cake

2009-02-16T09:15:00.000-08:00

This recipe is from an informative, really neat cookbook for beginning GF cooks-- "You Won't Believe It's Gluten-Free!" by Roben Ryberg.

Beat together:
1/4 cup oil
1/3 cup sugar (I put in more because the description was a "not too sweet coffee cake" and who wants a not too sweet coffee cake?! Hello!)

Add:
2 eggs

Add other dough ingredients:
1/2 cup plain yogurt
1 1/4 cup cornstarch
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
1 1/4 teaspoon guar gum (or xanthum gum)

Pour it into a greased 9 inch square baking pan.

Sprinkle on the topping:
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/4 cup brown sugar
3 tablespoons butter
more white sugar

Bake for about 30 minutes at 350*

Ryberg tells me to wait until it cools to room temperature. HAAA! I set a timer for 10 minutes after I pulled it out of the oven... and made it to 8 minutes 50 seconds.

I beleeve...

2009-02-06T12:17:00.000-08:00

This I Beleeve…. I Mean, Believe

I believe in imperfection. I believe in bad hair days, missed appointments, botched opportunities and forgotten deadlines. Without fail (or rather, with fail) every effort I make will, in some way, be ruined, lacking, flawed and defective. My best will never be good enough, and my abilities have limits that will cause eventual heartache and disappointment.

And you know what? It’s OK.

As a precocious child attending private school, I was the “model everything”. I wore the biggest bow and an immaculate uniform, and my penmanship was the envy of the world. Of course the teachers adored me: “Watch how Diondra finishes her homework so quietly,” “Look how Diondra colors inside the lines!” Until one day…

One day, Teacher was absent. The bored substitute passed out a mindless worksheet and pandemonium (literally) rained. Kids ran up and down the room, over chairs and tables, and performed Crayola “firework displays.” I cowered at my desk, wanting only to follow instructions and flawlessly (as usual) complete the dot-to-dot. However, Thomas Annoying-Boy had snatched my entire pencil box to augment the colorful stationary explosions above our heads, and I was tool-less! Alarm bells crashed in my head. I could not finish the assignment, I could not please the teacher—I could not be perfect.

The panic welled up like a bubble in my chest and my pulse quickened. When the anxiety became unendurable, I ran to the front of the classroom to exercise my only option--the one tried-and-true, surefire way to get out of a classroom ASAP.

“Mrs. Teacher!” I all but screamed in my terror, “I am going to THROW UP.”

Of course, the immediately-attentive substitute whisked me from the chaotic classroom to the sanctuary of the nurse’s office and shortly thereafter, home. There, Mom put me to bed—not for an upset stomach, but for mental anguish revealed by tearstained cheeks and swollen eyes.

I could control the mechanics of my world with clockwork precision, but when an unforeseen cog fell into the works and pandemonium ensued, adaption was out of the question. An obsession with perfection damages my confidence in myself to adapt and improvise, halts problem-solving and reasoning, and, perhaps most frighteningly, cripples creativity.

No more. At 17, I stared into my mirror at an older, but no wiser tear-streaked, exhausted face framed by frazzled blond tendrils. I couldn’t be perfect any longer. Too many things demanded my time and energy. Seminary, grades, church, scholarships, family, friends, clubs, activities, applications—I couldn’t control it all, so I resolved, then and there, to stop thinking I had to.

I chose honesty over image. I chose sanity over self-abuse. I chose humility, and I chose to accept the sacrifice of the One whose perfection is enough for me.

My imperfections truly are the most defining and vital part of my character. I can cope with bad hair days, manage missed appointments and forget forgotten deadlines. I refuse to be controlled by my surroundings—I will be happy, perfect or not. I believe in imperfection because in it, we can all be made strong.

PIZZA?!

2009-02-02T17:34:00.001-08:00

Get on my mom's blog, My Gluten-free Reality, for an actual pizza dough recipe.

I'm just here to revel in my success.

OMELETTE NIGHT!!!

2009-01-23T09:43:00.000-08:00

Omelette night, Omelette night, Ain't no night like Omelette night.

Last night, five friends rushed me to the hospital (or "Medical Center," as the less iron-stomached of the crew called it)-- not for a surgery or because we crazy college kids had dared one of us to jump off something stupid, and not because we (read: I) wanted to see (read: snatch) some newborn babies,

but because we were hungry. Rumor on campus was that once a month, a fantabulous chef comes to the Medical Center buffet to showcase his egg-cracking skills.

Why I didn't take my camera, I'll never know--you'll have to take my word for it. We were there an hour and a half before the event opened, and it was a good thing too, 'cause the line was ridiculous! The entire town of Provo shows up--accompanied by a slice of humor and good will, because the chef is almost more well known for his sharp tongue and wit than for his cuisine.

About half an hour before they let us in, he poked his gigantic, imposing bald head out the door and hollered, "If any of you are trying to get an omelette for someone who isn't here, you can just FORGET IT! I'd be here all night making two for each person, so just SHOVE OFF!"

All this for an omelette? I don't know, you guys...

My anxiety rose as I suddely remembered the fact that celiacs know well: Eggs are not always a safe bet. IHOP puts pancake batter in their omelettes for that gigantic fluffiness, and judging by the door-jarring response, I couldn't exactly expect this guy to be warm and cuddly about working with my disease.

I may have mentioned my misgivings because next thing I knew, I was being passed body to body and jerked to the front of the line, for a face to face with the chef-from-heck! Yikes! Turns out a friend-of-a-friend (and the chef-from-heck's niece, wouldn'tcha know) is the sweetest person ever and got me a one-on-one with the boss. I found him to be quite civil when discussing his art, and learned that the eggs were fine, but chicken, sausage, hashbrowns and guacamole were all designated as "out."

Plenty of ingredients remained, however, to result in a more than satisfactory omelette. Green peppers, tomatoes, ham, red peppers, olives, onions, mushrooms--even cashews and strawberries?!--and of course, enough cheese to stop up an elephant.

I discovered that this was not just any omelette--It was absolutely the largest omelette I've ever set my beady, greedy eyes upon.
It was, actually, larger than me.
For only $3.75, that's a delicious meal and rare deal that no starving college student should pass up.

Or not look forward to.

For an entire month.

Omelette night, omelette night...

PICTURES!

Apparently I was way more excited than Brian was about my omelette-- but, I'm sure, this was just because he had not yet tasted of the sweet, sweet omelette goodness. Don't worry, he was completely converted by the end of the night.

Aaaaaand a closeup of the omelette (cuz that's what we REALLY care about, and who is this BOY?! --love, Mom):

Yes, those are strawberries--I did tell you that you can put anything in them.
Mmmmm!
.

Finish Strong

2008-12-09T16:09:00.000-08:00

Virtus Tentamine Gaudet:

Strength Rejoices in the Challenge

It's ten o'clock, and I have just a little while to finish one of my papers that is due tomorrow before I drop into my bed from sheer exhaustion. My schedule for the week is beyond crazy--it's ridiculous. I'm running into social and health problems, and family issues.
BUT.

Strength rejoices in the challenge, and I say, "Bring it on."

I'm ready to finish this semester running... or, if not running, crawling at a very fast pace.

.

Mission... Possible

2008-12-08T06:04:00.000-08:00

Nightfall, and the tiny, snow locked, sleepy town was silent except for here, inside the rustic vacation home to which I had trekked in order to fulfill a mission.

My mission.

Laundry. This collegiate gal’s attire needed some serious Snuggles action, so I sojourned through the mountains in search of a washer and dryer. Luckily, my cousin had come to keep me company on my quest and his mission, if he chose to accept it (or not) was to keep the fires in the house stocked with wood. After a few hours, my mission was almost complete, and both machines were rumbling and tumbling in the basement while we chilled in the living room. Unfortunately that wasn’t the only rumbling going on, as Derick’s and my stomachs were beginning to drown out the movie—not that we really wanted to see A Little Princess anyway.

Derick is ten days younger than me (and oh, how he hates it) and he, with two other of our younger cousins and I are an unstoppable, inescapably awesome team. We play together, we work together, and we form risky mission plans and daring acts of secret espionage together. When we were about twelve, we began planning for the Ultimate Mission: post-high school. We had provisions for college, dorms, budgets, rules, and missions (but not marriage. Introducing someone NEW to our foursome? Impossible). Together, we could best any obstacle, grapple with any hindrance!

So, Derick and I should have been able to deal with this barrier to our movie night, no problem! Though we hadn’t originally intended to watch all six library-rented movies at once—our unexpected movie marathon felt more like being chased by a crocodile along the Boston route rather than actually planning on running the 26.2 miles— as usual, we were flexible, and had accepted the challenge two movies in (“You wanna just watch all of ‘em tonight?” “Yeah… why not?”). Now, to deal with the one thing threatening the mission: hunger.

“Dia,” Derick intoned. “I believe,” he continued as if making some great declaration, “the food within your household needs to be located and devoured... NOW.”

I paused the movie and we raced to the kitchen for popcorn.

We sat side-by-side on the counter (to save bare feet from frosty linoleum) and, as custom dictated, poked, flicked water at, and hit each other to fill the terribly dull two minutes, thirty seconds before the main event, popcorn wars.
We discussed the merits and fallacies of the warnings of burning, scalding, suffocation, blindness, electrocution, etc., that were plastered in small print all over the popcorn bag, and then moved on to debate the litigious nature of the world. Derick and I are deep thinkers.

DING! Derick hopped down from his perch and punched the “open” button. I sought to prove my side of the debate by placing my hand over the opening of the popcorn bag.

“SEE? It’s NOT burning me—ow!” The smell of singed flesh and the sound of Derick’s mockery joined the more pleasant fumes of perfect popcorn in the air as I sulkily stuck my hand under cool water in the sink. Derick’s next comment, though, more than trumped the silliness of my action. He popped open the bag and inhaled deeply:

“Ah! Oh, baby, we make some good popcorn.”

Silence—an odd occurrence when Derick and I were together. The soft whistling of the winter wind around the old, creaking house, the crackling of the fire in the adjoining room and the rumblings of the washer in the basement only threw the silence in the kitchen into starker contrast. Derick’s eyes shifted from the popcorn sideways, then up to the ceiling, and back.

He tried to remedy the situation gracefully:

“Ummmm…”

And failed.

“Derick,” I queried slowly, “Did you just call me … baby?”

The bag of popcorn hit the ceiling at about the same time we hit the floor. Kernels rained from heaven as we lay on the linoleum, laughing too hard to breathe.

Derick wheezed, “I meant for that to be TWO sentences! TWO! ‘Oh baby, PERIOD.’ Then, as a COMPLETELY separate thought, ‘Dia, we make some good popcorn!’”

I couldn’t stop laughing long enough to reply.

The rest of the weekend proved as eventful as that first night. We narrowly escaped from an ancient, frightening tome which, we’re positive, was possessed by Voldemort (no worries, we burned it AND stabbed it with a basilisk fang). He introduced me to the Slurpee (where had those BEEN all my life?!) and aided me in my epic struggle with about fifty belligerent, evil potatoes which REFUSED to mash nicely for Thanksgiving.
I thought joining our cousins for Thanksgiving would be the sweetest part of the week, but the most singular experience was the next day, on Black Friday as we three girls of the foursome of cousins were given the mission to pick Derick up from his all-night shift at the Gap. We took him to his physical and dental appointments—to obtain signatures for his mission papers.

Part of our united plan for the future has always included the idea that the kid cousins would eventually grow up and serve missions. With Derick’s and my birthdays so close together and girls leaving at 21 instead of 19, we always knew that if I decided to serve a mission, we would just miss each other coming and going—and not see one another for about three and a half years. It was a fact that had always been no big deal.

Today, today, today, I was slowly, gradually but increasingly realizing that I’d been wrong. The memories of the previous weekend and countless, wonderful others filled my mind and burned behind my eyes as unshed tears as I drove our carload of cousins from mission to mission. At the last destination, as he grinned and exited the car with a, “Don’t blow my cover!” I leaned over the center consul into another cousin’s shoulder and…well, I just lay there. I wish I could tell you that the refining tears came and healed, or that I received comfort from heavenly messengers, or that Derick came back for his wallet and made me feel better, but that didn’t happen. I just realized the true mission of that weekend.

Realized that my coconspirator, my confidant, my cousin would be leaving in a few months or less, and that I had been given these last few free days to enjoy with him as a truly tender mercy. Realized that he would be filling a lifelong dream, and that to be anything but excited for him would be selfish. Realized that before we met again, this kind, crazy, hilarious boy would grow into the sweet, caring man I can see glimpses of today, and that I would miss him more than I would ever, could ever admit.

By the time Derick got back in the car, I was back to normal. I had to be.

“What’d they find? Did the tapeworm spawn again? How much longer do you have?”

He punched me in the arm.

-

Ice Beauty

2008-12-07T07:17:00.000-08:00

Mom sent these to remind me of what I'm missing. Last year's ice storm in OK.

On the anniversary of the Oklahoma Ice Storm:

I Don't Make Food in "Small"

2008-12-02T18:07:00.000-08:00

I volunteered to bring the potatoes.

Grandma said that only the Atkinson family, the Chandlers, the grandparents and me would be at Thanksgiving this year, so "We won't need as much food as usual, I think."

Apparently I wasn't listening.
...apparently.

Potatoes were a three-day affair. I bought spuds, sour cream, garlic, milk and butter Tuesday night. I did, admittedly, already have all of these things at home, but... better too much, than too little, right? Wednesday was a torturous day filled with scrubbing. I like to make mashed potatoes with the skins on (WHY?! WHYYYY?) so I scoured the living daylights out of about fifteen pounds of potatoes for several eternities.

Next came the boiling. I HAD realized that I didn't own a pot--more like, a pot does not EXIST-- that would hold so many potatoes, but I had not foreseen that EVERY POT IN THE HOUSE would not hold that many potatoes.

I put in several hours of boiling, dumping and tasting (raw potato... not my favorite), then stabbing (the POTATOES, you guys!), reboiling, redumping, retasting... and sitting-on-the kitchen-floor-crying.

My cousin came over after work.

"What happened, silly?" he asked the tear-and-potato stained loony person.
"I'm making potatoes... for all of Ireland," I replied.

.
Well, all's well that ends well, and those potatoes DID end up crazy delicious. AND I've discovered the root cause of all of my insanity: genetics. When I walked in to the Thanksgiving feast with two huge bowls of potatoes, my aunts started cracking up.

"You ARE your mother!"

Apparently she doesn't make small, either...

A Huge Amount of Delicious Mashed Potatoes

"Several" potatoes
about 1/2 cup milk
1 cup of butter or 1/4 c for every 5 lbs of potatoes
garlic-- powdered or smashed-- to taste
8 ounces sour cream
salt to taste

Scrub potatoes. Dice and drop into boiling water. Let potatoes boil until they are soft when poked with a fork--no shorter, and no longer! Drain and mash. Add warm milk, butter, sour cream, garlic, salt, and whatever else your heart desires. Be prepared to never want to eat another potato, ever again, if you did the boiling step wrong.

Just Around the River Bend

2008-12-01T09:29:00.001-08:00

.

Wingapo!

When I was six years old, I had a sweater. It was pink, about three sizes too big for me, and was emblazoned with a huge profile of my favorite princess—Pocahontas.
All of my thoughts and hopes centered around this free-spirited, passionate Indian princess. My stuffed animals were all named “Meeko” or “Flik” alternately, and every rock became a 50-foot diving board.

It’s a well-known story in my family—some unknown villain crushed my hopes and dreams by letting my little, oblivious six-year old self know that I could never be Pocahontas because I was so incredibly white.

…Which is true. However, I have noticed (noticed, not imagined… I hope) some awesome similarities between this graceful, wise, beautifully brown princess and short, white, rather awkward me.

I’m pretty mellow most of the time, but when really aroused, I can definitely speak my mind about subjects I am passionate about—and Pocahontas does not let anyone make decisions for her. When she is told by her father that she must marry Kocoum, she really considers the subject, makes a decision, and sticks to it! Despite this independence, however, she is still closely tied to family and her culture. She, like me, has ideas and theories from which she will not back down. This reminds me of myself because of my LDS-ness. When I lived in Oklahoma, my beliefs were challenged almost every day. I had to have the courage and delicacy to stand up for my beliefs without completely offending the perpetrators.

I am more consumed with “what’s around the river bend” than in the “handsome sturdy husband who’ll build handsome sturdy walls.” I also care much more about personality and, especially, humor than about appearances in men—like Pocahontas, who shunned the INCREDIBLY ATTRACTIVE (but too serious) Kocoum without a second thought. Boys have to try pretty hard to get past my disinterested outside “layer,” but if they can make me laugh… it’s golden.

Pocahontas shows wisdom beyond her years in her lessons to John Smith about accepting others, her forgiveness to the white men, her father, and her friend Nakoma and in her kindness to and acceptance of these strangers in her land. That sentence was ridiculous. I think I also show some of this quiet maturity—comes from being the oldest child, maybe. Despite all her romantic tree-hugger tendencies, Pocahontas is also practical. When she breaks a rule, she figures out the repercussions and plans accordingly—you won’t see her making rash choices because “I just can’t take it anymore” or “All is lost!” or “No one CARES.” She stays behind instead of going with John Smith to England, representing her attachment to family and her mature spirit. I am not a romantic (as hard as it is to say that…) and I would have, I think, made the same decision.

I love the outdoors. My favorite vacations involve hiking, swimming, rafting, boating, skiing… you name it! Being in nature brings me so much happiness and peace. I love finding places where no one else has been before, sights that no one else has seen. Nature is unique because it is constantly changing. I love the gift God has given me in the ever-changing, beautiful landscapes of Earth—and so does Pocahontas. The acts of greed and villainy that pollute the beautiful, untamed land that once was just tear her heart out, and, as my incessant recycling habits and “save the trees” tendencies will blatantly show, I also feel very strongly about keeping wildlife wild and beautiful.

Though I may not ever perfect a 300-foot swan dive, have the perfect serenity or grace of a Native American princess, or achieve a perfect, chocolate complexion and waves of raven-black hair, I believe I am becoming more and more like my childhood heroine every day as I learn to trust myself and my instincts, to stand up for what I believe, to find joy in the little things and in the nature around me and to always look for the adventure!!

Ayi-yi-yi-yi-yi-yah!!!

Thankful!

2008-11-30T21:25:00.000-08:00

.

I am so grateful for my cousins, especially Derick Gines. He's 10 days younger than me, but he's always been my example. He is so kind and righteous--no matter what! He comes over to keep me company while I'm all alone in the vacation house, and I don't know what I'm going to do when he goes on his mission in a couple months.

I'm thankful for Slurpees. I've never had one before, and the aforementioned cousin introduced them to me last Tuesday. Cherry and pina colada never tasted so delectable! I am thankful to be able to act, sometimes, like a child again.

I am grateful for truth. I've been working on a scripture chain about "the word" of God and its implications: scripture, prophets' teachings, Jesus Christ, truth and light, and the power thereof. So many in our world do not believe that absolute truth exists. I am thankful that I can know that something is true- without a doubt, without one discrepancy or condition.

However, I am most thankful, I think, for gluten-free banana cream pie. Yum!

.

The Stress Factor

2008-11-18T09:15:00.000-08:00

“Mom, I am having a terrible day! The HUGE English essay is due on Wednesday, and I’m feeling sick, and I REALLY should be studying for that Chem test this week, and don’t even get me STARTED on Comms, and what if I lose my scholarship? I don’t even know why I’m AT college! Why am I even here?! I don’t even know what I want to do with my life! … blah, blah, blah.”

When I have kids who are in college, I will be sorely tempted to set up a permanent busy tone during the month before finals.

She simply said, “Dia, you’re having a bad day. Yesterday (and all month before that), you loved college. Just find something to laugh about and stop stressing out!”

Yeah, right. So I was on Cakewrecks.blogspot.com looking for something to laugh about (it’s full of them, go check it out), and I found this cake (ha HA! Now this relates to food! YES!):

These were the words I lived by during what should have been an insanely stressful senior year. Junior year had just been too crazy, and though I was taking even more AP classes and had more responsibilities senior year, I decided to just stop freaking out and realize what things really mattered. I got to see my family, and sleep, and my blood pressure probably went down. Somehow, things just worked themselves out—and my GPA didn’t even (somehow?!) suffer.

I’m reminded of Count Rugen’s ironic response to a stressed-out Prince Humperdink as they’re going in to torture Wesley: “Well, get some rest. If you don’t have your health, you don’t have anything.”

In the GRAND scheme of things, college will matter. But freaking out over every assignment, class, grade, professor, activity and responsibility will NOT. I can find peace in laughing about it.

Re-Vision

2008-11-11T19:45:00.000-08:00

Revision: an edited version of a project, paper, or diatribe. To "see again".

or...

I'm sick of leftovers.

Leftovers in college have whole new meaning than they did at home. Sure, Mom always made enough food to feed an army, but there was AN ARMY TO FEED.
Here, I make food in the same proportions... and I eat the same thing for a month.

Therefore, revision. The rice dish yesterday becomes a chicken base today, becomes a taco soup tomorrow, will be Spanish casserole next week.
My creative tendencies and "thrifty" (read: CHEAP) tendencies combine to help me create all kinds of things from... all kinds of leftovers.

Just today, I ruined pumpkin muffins. Don't ask me how, they just didn't work (OK, you asked, and I think it has to do with not pre-heating the oven... oops). BUT the point is, How will I make something new out of this dish that probably should've been tossed straight into the trash as it exited the oven?

Revision... gotta love it.

-

Recipes Cramp My Style

2008-11-04T15:36:00.000-08:00

"And garnish it with a slice of lemon and a sprinkle of parsley...beautiful."

Some chefs cook with precision. Some cook with love. Some cook with only the best ingredients, while others prefer making something out of nothing. Some cook in minuscule portion, and some barbecue five turkeys for Thanksgiving. Some chefs cook with flair, some with ease, some with hard-won intuition.

Some chefs cook with audacity.

My cooking style is courageous. By necessity, sure (when you can't just "grab a p b & j" ever again, all kind of innovative possibilities open up) (how about peanut butter and jelly... on a corn tortilla?!) but it's also my personality. My reckless, impatient self has had an uphill but ever progressing battle all my life in overcoming my cautious, careful tendencies. Just recently, in my high school years, I've realized that perfection is for boring people-- and (just like in cooking) all kind of possibilities opened up.

As I was contemplating my cooking style, my roomie reminded me of a recent experience with a certain pot of onery taco soup. Upon trial run, I had to pronounce that it tasted "like mud," and sat there looking at the offending dish for a straight 2-seconds.
Then it was off to the cupboard.
I added a couple of the usual ingredients (beans, corn, tomatoes, taco seasoning) and then, when that didn't work, some... others (garlic, onion powder, cheese powder, frozen stir-fry veggies, beef, chicken, rice, and the shimmering contents of a strange, unmarked container waaaay in the back of my cupboard). "Heck, even if it tastes bad, at least it will TASTE," I decided. And you know what, it did (taste, or taste bad? I'll never tell)!

I don't try the same thing twice, because then... how would we learn? No, really, I don't try the same thing twice (and I don't use recipes, they cramp my style!) because that would involve planning ahead. How on Earth am I supposed to know what I'm going to want to eat TOMORROW NIGHT while I'm standing in the grocery store today?

Better to improvise than to organize!

Thus, akin to Disney movies, every meal requires a little imagination. Recipe calls for sour cream? Mayonnaise works just as well (don't stick up your nose until you've tried it). No mayo... AH HA! Let's try yogurt! OK, slighly different consistency... but that's what makes it fun!

I have so many examples... I can't even begin to name them. No potato masher, but Dia wants to make mashed potatoes? Let's try a whisk. Nope. Blender? NOPE. Erm... wooden spoon?

No ____ flour (fill in: teff, quinoa, potato, rice, or pretty much anything else)? Let's try... _____ flour (again fill in your choice of flour type. Or corn starch)!!!

No ice cream? Freeze plain yogurt in an ice-cube tray. Out of sugar? Honey works just as well, or better. No eggs? 2 tablespoons of ground flax boiled in water.

Sure, it doesn't work sometimes (the same roomie asked, "So where do you get your gluten-free recipes?" the other day while I was gnawing on a " personal pizza" --sauce, pepperoni and mozzarella on guess what? A CORN TORTILLA!-- and I had to think, "Stop mocking me. Recipes?? Who in their right mind would advise you to make a pizza on a corn tortilla on PURPOSE?")... but college students get to eat EVERYTHING, whether it works or not (I tell myself as I stare down at my newest try--I think I'm at #8-- at that constantly evading final product, "yogurt").

Besides, if you made the same thing every time, cooking would be like math.
2 + 2 = 4, blah, blah, blah.
Where's the adventure, intrigue, and STYLE in that?

.

Daddy's Girl

2008-10-29T06:04:00.001-07:00

"Why do I do this?"

I ask myself, every Monday and Wednesday, as I dip my toes into the ice-cold-freezing-frigid-like-Alaska swimming pool.

I love swimming. I love changing out of comfortable clothes into an awkward, weirdly fitting, damp swimsuit. I love stretching and snapping a plastic cap over whatever my hairdo was that day. I love the questionable locker room and the cold puddles of probably-disease-filled water (water?) that I splash through on the way to the pool. I LOVE having to get in a freezing pool and how it makes me want to start exercising immediately, or lose toes and fingers. I love the pain and agony of the sprints and the humiliation of "butterfly". I love getting out soaking wet to spend the next half hour trying to get warm, dry, and dressed before walking outside and having my hair freeze.

Oh, yeah, I love swimming.

So if I love it SO much... why do I still do it?!?!?

I figured it out. It's all in the genes: Dad.

My Dad has run something like 34 marathons to date. The first one was about 15 years ago, and we have pictures of him at the finish line--well, we actually have many more pictures of me, the cute, chubby 3-year-old than we do of the bedraggled, almost-dead Dad. Despite months of diligent preparation and training, the marathon had stripped him of energy and feeling--not to mention toenails and probably years of life.

...and he wanted to do it again?

The man obviously enjoys pain: His dream vacation is walking uphill in all kinds of weather with 50+ pounds strapped to his back just so he can enjoy a view that is already hanging on his living room wall. He bikes 15 miles to work everyday--and 15 miles back--to save a couple cents on gas. His life goal is the Ironman, the Beast of all triathalons that basically sounds a little less fun than having every hair on your head ripped out by the roots.

Although...

Despite my immediate revulsion at such crazy activites... it kind of sounds like fun.
It has to be in my genes, because all logical thought screams, "Hello?! It's fun because it hurts less when it's OVER?! That's NOT WHAT FUN IS!"

Nevertheless, I find myself drifting toward the BYU triathalon booth, and looking up marathon training schedules online, and ...

again...
jumping into this freezing swimming pool.

--

Does Food Affect Health? Are you kidding?

2008-10-21T19:45:00.000-07:00

If you complain of--or really, even mention-- anything related to any body function to my mother, be prepared for one reply:

"What have you been eating lately?"

Whether it's a slight tickle in your throat, a left molar that's aching, a slower pace on your jog or even a bad hair cut, Mom knows what's wrong:

"Obviously you haven't been getting the right nutrients. Let me mix you a vitamin cocktail right this minute."

Your complaint IS certain to be related to malnutrition--even if you can trace the ailment back to an actual event. "But Mom!" you protest. "My leg is broken because I FELL BACKWARDS off the BACK FENCE while CHASING THE CAT with my ROLLER BLADES ON! This has NOTHING TO DO with food!!"

"Your bone would never have snapped if you'd been getting your vitamin D, and calcium," she'd reprimand us. "Here's a shake with everything you need."

Since an early age, I've been skeptical of food--probably because of an infamous experience (caught on video) in which my parents laugh until they cry as they feed baby-Dia mashed potatoes and ice cream alternately. I became increasingly frustrated at this confusing food which was AMAZING one minute and boring the next.

A few years later, I came home from a birthday party completely befuddled at the menu choices there. "MOM! There were muffins, but they were SWEET, and they had frosting, like CAKE, and sprinkles!!!..." The same week, my sugar rushing little brother tried to explain that he had eaten "mom, bagels, mom, but they were yummy, and had, um, they had FROSTING on top, and they had jam inside, and, MOM! Mom. What were those mom, huh? Huh Mom?"

I remember scouring the cereal aisle with my little brother for a new breakfast cereal that fit Mom's criteria. Sugar had to be the third ingredient or lower, and exist in lower quantities than 4 grams per serving. We were SO excited when we found we could have Kix--it was a great addition to our usual breakfasts of plain oatmeal ("sprinkle on ground flax, and pretend it's brown sugar!!"). We were in heaven when we got to visit cousins--their kitchens were motherloads of Lucky Charms, Capt'n Crunch and even--no!--Cookie Crunch (COOKIES for BREAKFAST?! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?!)! I'm sure my aunts wondered why "Ian and Dia just want cereal for dinner again," but it was just such a marvel to have that much sugar in one bowl!

Later in life, I remember dreading the fresh, foamy shot glass of lawn-green wheat grass waiting next to my whole grain, honey pancakes and icy orange juice (Don't let it's innocent orange color lull you. It is another flax-seed hideout). The tiny, emerald glass of frothy liquid was the most disgusting, gag-inducing torture I've ever experienced. Mom made the distressing drink by blending clippings from her wheat grass plant, straight up. The resulting refreshment often left a cud like flavor under your tongue and a few forgotten, un-blended blades of grass stuck to the roof of your mouth--a GREAT beginning to the day.

However, the nutritional benefits were "absolutely worth it!" exulted Mom every morning. "One tablespoon of this amazing stuff has the benefits of an entire POUND of vegetables, kids! Isn't that awesome?!"

...Yeah, Mom...

In the interest of nutrition, Mom ground her own wheat, grew her own herbs and concocted her own mixes. She stored flax, sprouted beans, and later, when she discovered wheat hurt her babies, she learned how to bake with teff, quinoa, corn meal, amaranth, and a little kitchen miracle called xanthum gum.

You can get used to anything, I guess. I know, I did and in the process, I learned that food affects health--of course because of my disease, and the food induced diseases that accompany it, diabetes, lupus, IBS, acid reflux, and stomach and esophogeal cancer.

However, food affects health in all kind of other ways, too. I knew before doctors did that cough syrups are worthless and that colds are best fought with vitamins C and B, echinacea, and enough liquids to drown a horse instead. I'm a firm believer that acne is cured with an enzyme(Lysine), not Accutane, and that enough leafy greens chase away cancer cells. Carbonation will ruin your bone marrow, Omega 3 keeps the brain and heart healthy, and artificial sweeteners have direct ties with communism and devil-worship.

I've adopted Mom's philosophies, and if I have my way, my kids will never have a formal introduction to sugar until their freshman biology class reveals the unique qualities of sucrose.

--

Dimwits Get No Dinner

2008-10-13T20:16:00.000-07:00

Last Friday night, I drove up Provo Canyon to my family's little vacation home to do laundry. I was simply loving the bachelor life: I sang along with my headphone'd ipod all the way there (a luxury not recommended with company), unloaded the car by myself (it's amazing how much old Bertha can haul), changed into some pj's, and pulled out the grill to cook up some pancakes.

As I settled down for a night of warm banana pancakes, laundry, old movies and maybe even beauty sleep, I began to review the lengthy "to-do" list that I had accomplished that busy day. I mentally congratulated myself as I checked each item off in my mind:

Buy gelatin for that yogurt recipe? ...done.
Fill big Bertha with gas? ...check (groan).
Recycle the huge pile of plastic bags accumulating in the utility closet? ...finished!
Water the plants outside? ...yup.
Deposit that check at the bank?

...

All at once the panic struck. The calm stillness of the old house was punctuated by my shrill cries of the worst swear word I know (reader discretion advised...):

"CRAP!" I yelled, and sat bolt upright with every sense at immediate attention as I realized all at once that the check I was supposed to cash had been nestled carefully in the back pocket of the jeans I had just shed, which were now...

"CRAP!!!" in the washer.

"CRAP! crud, crud, crudcrudcrud CRUD-- CRAP!!"

I was shouting as I ran down the stairs, my voice getting louder as panic grew from the realization of what I had done. By the time I burst into the laundry room, I was at multi-decibel level.

I doubt the washer has ever been accosted with such force, as it had, up to this point, been living a long and happy vacation existence in the calm of mostly sane and quiet people. I slammed the button to stop its motion and flung open the lid. My frantic slog through soggy clothes revealed absolutely nothing; no jeans, no check, not even watery remains.

I should have been calmed by the absence of soggy paper, but I was off. My frustration only mounted: "Where IS it?" My mind flew to other possibilities. Were the jeans still in the gigantic pile of laundry? Within seconds, the mountain was moved--decimated, really, and as I strode through the wake of the destruction, kicking aside t-shirts and socks, I hollered, "WHERE IS IT?" ...as if expecting a response from the aftermath of the laundry room.

A new thought fell like a forgotten rag into my busily swirling load of my agitated mind:
"Maybe I left it in the car!"

Back up the stairs I tumbled and raced outside, slamming the door behind me. My bare feet danced a jig on the ice as a quick glance through the driver's side window told me the check was not in Bertha's domain, so I turned back to search inside--

and stopped.

The door handle jiggled in my hand, but would not turn. Maybe it was stuck? I turned harder, even yanked a little. Nothing. More worried now, I gave the door a full-out dose of "open up right now, or else".

Uh oh.

Locked out.

I remembered (an aberrant thing for me right then) that in my rush to find the check, I had left a pancake on the griddle and smashed my face up against the freezing glass. Sure enough, there it was, bubbling beautifully and completely ignorant of its ensuing doom. At this point, it was certainly finished cooking, and any further time on the heat would render it inedible. I did consider the possibility of an eventual fire, but honestly, I was more worried about my grumbly stomach than I was about the dumb house. Or even the check, actually.

OK, time to take a moment and focus on more rational thinking, right?

Ha ha! Yeah, sure.
First item on the "save the pancake" agenda was to frantically run around the periphery of the house (in freezing temperatures) in my pajamas (kind of like loony Great Aunt Muriel used to do...) to search for another way in. After the cold snapped me back to my senses, I crouched on the ground in front of the door to try to think of other solutions (and to warm my frostbitten toes). It was then that I felt my cell phone bump against my leg.

Cell phone?

"GRANDMA! I'M LOCKED OUT OF THE HOUSE AND IT'S FREEZING AND I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO AND MY PANCAKE IS BURNING!"

Grandma knew an emergency when she heard one, and in less than two minutes, my uncle pulled up in a big hurry. As he let me into the house, he couldn't speak because he was laughing so hard, and the only words I had for him were, "THANKS FOR HELPING ME SAVE MY PANCAKE!!!"

Thank goodness, the pancake was crispy but not blackened, and I even found the stupid check in a pocket of my purse (I know! who woulda thought to look there?!). All's well that ends well.

Although, despite my abilities, great intentions, ingenuity, and a fabulous sense of fashion, this independent, confident, queen of the bachelorettes could not have bested the elements, met every challenge and saved her pancake without a little help from other people who care.

I get by with a little help from my friends...

--

The Power of Word

2008-09-30T22:03:00.000-07:00

"It's positive? ...Are you sure?... Man..."

I am fairly sure that this was my rather anti-theatrical reply to Mom's voice on the phone-- "Positive. You have celiac disease... sorry, hon. Welcome to the party. "

"Positive" is the word of the day, and let me just tell you--that word is not just one end of the magnet anymore. I was diagnosed just less than two months ago, so the wound is fresh enough to consider the implications that the diagnosis has had in my small existence.

"Positive"

I hear there are several stages of grief--denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance.

Ha.

In the first few weeks of being labeled with that hateful word, I went from acceptance to bargaining to anger, then to depression to anger to denial to anger to bargaining to acceptance and back to anger.

Lots of anger. Not that I ask, "Why me?" or "How could this happen?" No, my thoughts focus on more pressing matters, like "SO NOW IT'S FUNNY TO LEAVE THE BREAD IN PLAIN VIEW, RIGHT ON THE COUNTER?!" and, "IF I SEE ANOTHER FLOUR TORTILLA, SOMEONE'S GONNA BE SEEING FLOUR TORTILLAS INTO NEXT WEEK." These examples are, erm, mild, compared to the pure frustration that occurs when your whole schema of "things that are edible" has been turned upside down (and shaken, and then blended on the "puree" setting for two days).

I never really went through Denial, because I have known for a while that there was a chance I'd be labeled with that terrible word, positive. The Bargaining phase again, is not much of an issue, because even an accidental slip in my absolutely gluten-free diet takes me down-and-out, so why on earth would I bring it on by cheating on purpose?

Depression, though. Wow.

This disease makes every meal a trial, every snack is a challenge and even opening the pantry cupboard is hard. I've spent time sitting on the grocery store floor bawling and clutching a package of Saltines to my chest. Afterward I felt refreshed and very silly and I dry my tears, and began anew--crying that is, as I spy the packaged cake mix and cereal shelves.

My mom has been diagnosed (again with that word, "positive") for a few years, so celiac disease was never a foreign idea to me, but some aspects of this disease have been... surprising. Not the good, happy-birthday-we-got-you-balloons kind of surprise, more like the horrible, the-birthday-clown-is-hiding-in-the-closet-with-a-chainsaw kind of surprise.

I never expected, for instance, the social isolation. It's amazing how connecting food is, and how divisive a food allergy be. No more pizza night, lunch with the girls, or dinner-and-a-movie. Food has a leveling capacity, a connective comaraderie and not being able to share the taste experience is akin to social starvation.

I also never considered that food is really a part of your identity. "Positive," and never again can you honestly tell someone your favorite ice cream flavor--because your favorite is now off-limits. "Positive," and your favorite restaurants are, similarly, history, as are your favorite snacks, dishes, ethnic foods, and desserts. "Positive," and suddenly, your every thought has to center around what you can and cannot eat and how to get more of one and reduce your proximity to the other.

Most of all, I hate that celiac disease forces me to act against my inate nature. Relaxed, anti-confrontational, service-oriented Dia has to worry about contamination, whine about crumbs, and first and foremost, take care of me --and it's driving me crazy. I can't be easygoing and share freely and let others use my food or utensils-- I have to be picky and obsessive, I have to scrub down counters before I cook, I have to scrutinize label after label after label. It seems like my care-free nature is being taken over by this needy, whiny, worrying MONSTER that was created, again, by that word "Positive."

Just one word. One word with all the implications, complications, and power in the world.

One word that had me actually considering, at a recent family party, how terrible it really could be if I were to snatch that barely tasted piece of gluten-free carrot cake off the pile of plates that was headed to the trash... Obviously some philistine does not recognize this priceless treasure, and they have decided that it was a bit too dry or dense or sweet for their taste, and they chucked it without a second thought!! The temptation was strong--

but I'm proud to say that I did not go dumpster diving that day (athough if I had, it would have been worth it).

To end on a "positive" note (I swear the pun was unintentional), I'm learning to deal with this new part of me. I am trying new things, bettering my cooking skills, and experiencing a new challenge. I am growing in my struggles and refusing to give up.

I'm learning how to be positive.

The Ratio of Vanilla Pudding to Confetti Cake

2008-09-23T20:08:00.000-07:00

I have an announcement.

Recently, I made a scientific breakthrough that will have lasting impact on the entire world. Its reach will be epic, its effect, legendary. My breakthrough will spark new research and revolutionize culinary experimentation. It will change the face of food and science as we know it!!!

This is it:

________________________________________________

All food is not created equal.

I know, I know what you're saying! Many are screeching, "Oh course not! I'd rather eat strawberries than ludefisk any day!" Some are arguing, "All food serves a common purpose in the end, so what's the difference?!" Others of you are yelling, "What the heck IS ludefisk?"

Let me explain.

I realize that some food tastes better than other food (of course), and that some food is more palatable than other food (duh), and that no one really knows what ludefisk is (even the Norwegians). The realization that I, erm, realized, is that there are RIDICULOUS, scientifically-proven inequalities between some foods.

For instance, pudding and confetti cake.

For just a moment (and for the sake of my grade), let me attempt to persuade you with ethos. I am a registered, dyed-in-the-blue expert on the ratio of pudding to cake, because I am also a registered, diagnosed celiac. I have had field experience, hands-on practice, and personal encounters with this most specialized of subjects--I live with five wheat-lovin' girls.

You're still not convinced? Logos uses facts, so let me share with you the statistics that have been gathered from field research:

In one test alone, the subject consumed nearly five billion packages of vanilla pudding when faced with one gilamogram of frosted confetti cake.

In a closely related test in which the subject was denied a mere tablespoon of Cap'n Crunch, she decimated about eight hundred Yoplait yogurt containers--plastic, and all.

In a final test, which is now under close review by the Board of Ethical Experimentation, the subject was denied one slice of pizza, and consequently devoured six bowls of grits, twelve cold baked potatoes, eight gallons of milk, seventeen entire blocks of mozzarella cheese, half of New York and--dare we print it?-- one slice of Spam.

The facts are undeniable, but if you still do not believe, let me continue with the most powerful "toolbox" of all--pathos.

The green, rectangular container on the counter seemed to be calling to me.

"Dia," it said, "I'm delicious."

It was 11:36 on a Sunday night, and I was sitting at the kitchen table, alone.

Staring.

The confetti cake sat there, unapologetically, in all its glory. It had been placed on the "off limits" contertop (the one from which the toaster crumbs mock me every morning), but its teasing, tempting smell filled the entire apartment. The lid of the container was ajar, and through the crack, one could glimpse gooey frosting, delicately browned edges and golden flecks of fluffy cake in places where the decadent dessert had already been sliced. It had called all day long, unceasingly, unrepentantly, in those radiant, heavenly tones, and sleep was no respite--even my dreams were filled with that delectable, fobidden creation. Now, it had called me from bed, and there I sat, late at night, at the kitchen table.

Alone.

Staring.

There was only one chance for me.

I began the familiar ritual (this would be the fourth time in two hours). Container. Spoon. 2 cups of cold milk. 1 packet of instant vanilla pudding.

About 15 seconds...

Perfect. Well, not quite perfect, because of my breakthrough--all food is not created equal.
Though my vanilla pudding is gluten-free, delicious, fast, and creamy, it lacks one thing...

It's not confetti cake.

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Missed the Boat... or rather, the rice-paper plane

2008-09-16T15:42:00.000-07:00

My pulse was running too fast and tiny sweat droplets hung on the edges of my makeup. My breath was coming a little quickly, in small gulps, and it seemed the silk kimono I wore was made out of lead. My black wig seemed to constrict as my heart beat the mantra, "You can do it, you can do it" through heavy veins in my temples. It was hot under the lights, but I'm sure my thirteen year old self was reacting to the psychological rather than physical stress.

It was eighth grade, the school musical, and this was the opening performance.

"The Mikado" is a clever, light-hearted operetta that pokes fun at love and hate, peons and authority, ignorance, knowledge, Japan, Britain... and everything in between. The Gilbert-and-Sullivan favorite is set in Japan, where a Lord High Executioner must kill someone within the month, his ward and fiancee Princess Yum Yum falls in love with a trombone player, and said trombone player offers his life for said execution if he can marry said princess for said month---and that's just the first act! It turns out that the trombone player is actually the son of the Mikado (the emperor of Japan), the Lord High Execution does not have the guts to kill anyone, and Princess Yum Yum is a complete flake--and if that isn't exciting enough, let's throw in the acting, dancing and singing!!

A surefire hit, right?

The first performance was an 11 am matinee for the 6th and 7th graders, and we did wonderfully! We did NOT forget the one line about the stuffy death, the Mikado's throne did NOT break into pieces, and the girl-squeamish and 4-foot-nothing trombone player, Nanki-Poo (no lie) did not ACTUALLY throw up when he had to "embrace" me--the dumber than dumb Yum Yum. (I'll never live it down... ).

It flopped.

The audience simply didn't get it. The jokes were too intellectual, the singing was too cryptic, the witticisms were too, well, witty. The meaning, feeling and point were lost. Even though we did our best, we neglected to keep in mind the age, ability, and level of comprehension of our audience--and that was the fatal mistake. I mean, let's face it: any musical with the song, "Tit Willow", that mentions a "dicky bird" should NOT be shown to a bunch of tweens.

That night we had a full house of parents, aged 30 to 60, and my! what a difference. To hear an audience "get it" is truly one of the greatest feelings a bunch of awkward eighth graders can experience. The lines got laughs, the high notes were appreciated, and the feel was definitely, finally, conveyed--from stage to audience and back again.

Sur le Meme Chose

2008-09-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

"SANS PAN? "

Her voice rose again, now broadcasting our plight to the entire Parisean restaurant.

"Oui, sans pan," I replied through my teeth. I was starting to lose my cool as I stood behind the counter and watched the large, black, completely offended French woman throw up her arms in the air--again.

"C'EST IMPOSSIBLE, SANS PAN! C'EST--"

"C'est ne pas difficile. Construit un sandwich, avec beuf, avec fromage, mais sans pan!"
My voice was beginning to rise, almost matching the already blaring level of her own. It was not that hard: my brother could not have wheat. All I needed was a burger without the bun.

This woman had had enough. With several resounding shakes of her head and sweeps of her gigantic arms, she gave the ultimatum:
"Nous ne peuvons pas a constuire un sandwich sans pan. Non".

That was it, then. "We cannot make a sandwich without bread"--it seemed to be France's national motto. We were in the city of food, and we had searched all morning outside the Louvre for something--anything--that my gluten-free brother could eat.

The French love their bread; every meal is centered around this epitome of the dining experience. Breakfast is pastries or a baguette with all the fixings, lunch comes over or inside "pan", dinner is always--you guessed it-- bread. We had passed cafe after cafe that day only to see the usual fair, charmingly written on blackboards--"croque monsieur, sandwich jambon, sandwich beuf". The ability to read and speak the language did me no good without the means of really communicating our desperation.

The culture was deaf to "just make it 'sans pan' "; it was like telling an American, "No apple pie for me, thanks", or actually, more like "Hey, can I blow my nose on your flag?"

When we had spied the McDonald's sign, we literally took pictures of ourselves pointing at it, we were so excited to finally find a restaurant where we could easily alter the choices to make them gluten-free.

Now, our hopes were falling as flat as a badly-cooked souffle.

Angry, exhausted, and just plain at the end of my options, I took a deep breath and set my teeth--probably to keep from crying. My brother, anti-confrontational angel that he is, kept insisting in a low, frantic whisper that he was fine, he wasn't hungry, don't worry about it.

I looked the infuriating woman in the eye and began again.

"D'accord. Donnez-moi les fruits, le yaourt-- deux yaourt..."

Slowly, carefully, I ordered each of the things on the menu that I knew my brother could eat. Fruit, yogurt, orange juice, ice cream--fat and sugar, absolutely not adequate fare for a constantly-famished, growing teenage boy romping through Paris from morning to night, but it would have to do for right now.

The Parisean, calmed by this apparent armistice in the attack upon her culture, took the order and got us our lunch. I think she was a little embarrassed by her obstinacy, as was I. By the end of the transaction, we at least both offered a "merci," and a subsequent "de rien"--
and I think we both learned something.

Me, that speaking the language (sorta) doesn't necessarily mean you can communicate, and that being louder doesn't necessarily make you more correct-- and she, that this was one battle France could and would win.

I now recognize that culture separated our viewpoints; but common humanity really, and basic human needs--hunger--finally brought us to, if not agreement, at least a middle ground.

My French teacher would be so proud.

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Thomas S. Monson's introductory address

2008-09-07T07:37:00.000-07:00

I really enjoy listening to Thomas S. Monson. He introduced the 178th General Conference with an address about the temples that have recently been dedicated and those that will be built soon. His choice of words and use of various rhetoric strategies helped to make his words memorable and interesting.
For example, when describing his experience in Idaho where he prayed that the rain would not ruin the celebrations for the temple, President Monson described Heavenly Father as "honor[ing]" his entreaty. He chose this specific phrase instead of a more general, "It didn't rain" or even "my prayer was answered." President Monson made Heavenly Father the active character and revealed to us a special aspect of prayer in his phrase--"HE honored that prayer."

President Monson also utilized repetition in some of his remarks. This is a great tool in oral rhetoric, especially, because the audience realizes that a list is coming, and they can focus on the aspects of the list rather than refocusing each time an aspect is given. President Monson said, "Some of you are just joining the church, we welcome you!" and "Some of you are struggling... we love and pray for you" rather than, "There have been baptisms, and I welcome those new members" and Some people in the church struggle through addictions, and the leaders here want to let you know that we are praying for and love you."

I love Conference. I know that we are offered the blessings of the word of God in General Conference. I didn't get to watch very much of this General Conference, because I was at the Saint George Marathon and I was ill, but I greatly look forward to watching and reading all of the sessions online and in the Ensign in the coming days and weeks.

Mung Beans--Life's Little Pleasures.

2008-09-05T22:41:00.000-07:00

I have a plastic bag in my closet. It's filled with odd, round, grayish-green... things. They're hard enough to shoot through a BB gun, and I'm sure my roommate thinks I'm crazy for keeping them...

But that's all about to change.

Well, sorta.

Mung beans are on the menu for today, so now these boring nodules get to (literally) come to life!!

I dump them out of their plastic prison into a cup of water and leave that cup in the dark for a day or two. Then I rinse them and put them back into the dark.

After a few days of warm darkness, these little lifeless blobs have doubled in size and sprouted... well, sprouted. Each bean has a white, inch-long growth which bears some resemblance to that single chin hair on your smooth-headed, hairy eared, great great grandma.

"...and you're going to eat that thing...?" My roommate, I'm sure, is still incredulous, but mung beans (or any bean, nut, or seed, when sprouted) are delicious and GREAT for you. New sprouts contain living enzymes, which help your body get the amino acids and other chemicals it needs to help you get to class and work (and homework, and to that date, and...) day after day after day.

As I throw them on my salad, into my smoothie or just straight up into my mouth, I marvel at the simple potential of these itty-bitty beans. You would never think that such a little, worthless-looking thing could contain such room for growth and life.

Hmmm...
Sometimes, I look at myself and see a little, drab, greenish-gray BEAN. I need to realize the divine potential I have. I may spend a couple days (or weeks) in darkness, but I know that eventually, growth will come from my trials or weaknesses.

What would happen if I let go of my mortally inadequate viewpoint (from the depths of my little cup of water) and trust Him--the only one who knows how much I can grow?

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