Seize the Squeals (and Raisins)

I’m a lackey to a certain blonde mini-person, aged 15 months, who regularly pilfers organic raisins from the bottom shelf of my pantry.  I’ve already mentioned in a previous blog that when she visits us solo, she becomes The Queen who also boldly throws open the doors of two lower cupboards and peppers the kitchen floor with assorted mixing bowls and measuring cups.  I’m her attendant: “Yes, Your Majesty - you may take possession of my house, Your Royal Babyness.”

This petite, diapered charmer rules the roost with her sweetly insistent little monkey-grunts: “Uh-uh-UH! Uh-UH!”  She points, squawks, and squeals to make her wants known, and I have no trouble understanding.  Get the balls down.  Open the bag of blocks.  Lift me up.   Go bye-bye.  Look at the birds!  I’m hungry.  I want water.  All done.  Get me down.

She’s a good-natured, easy child to babysit.  But just so you don’t think I’m a total pushover, I do reprimand inappropriate actions, like when she gleefully throws fistfuls of confetti-like puffed rice in celebratory party mode from the high chair.  “Nooooooo…no throw-down,” I scowl.  “That’s not what we do.”

She looks right through me with clear, guileless eyes as if to respond, “I hear you, and we’ll see about that.  We’ll see, Nana.” 

I stare into the deep, bewitched by those baby blues. 

It’s true that she has me wrapped around her very fragile-but-influential little pinky finger.  However, it’s a good place to be, since she, her two precious sisters, and their cherished parents will be moving away from our neck of the woods in a couple of months.  Carpe diem, I say - seize the enchanted, raisin-stealing, squealing, spoil-her-while-you-can day - for tomorrow may be comparatively predictable and silent.

True Vine Equestrian

I’ve been away from the computer recently  - “awol,” I suppose - backed off from the blank screen that said “cannot access service,” waiting and waiting (drumming fingers, staring into thin air) for interrupted internet access to return.  In cowboy language (which is what we use around here, what with a cowboy wanna-be for a husband), our galloping fast-speed internet screeched to a dead halt, so I had no choice except to dismount.  But this evening in one magical second of time our internet returned. Now I’m happily back in the blogging saddle, ready for a little action.

Speaking of saddles….hmmm.  Maybe that’s a good subject. 

On Monday night I was privileged to speak at True Vine Equestrian’s Fundraising Banquet (in place of my daughter-in-law who was out-of-town) to testify to the experiences of two grandsons who started riding lessons there last fall: one able-bodied, and one with special needs.    The boys’ sessions discontinued during the cold-weather months, but will resume in April.  I’m eager to see them both back in their own downsized saddles before long!

I’m beginning to understand how things work at True Vine - how students learn so much more than horseback riding skills.  Everything about True Vine is “big” - big animals, big facilities, big-hearted volunteers, big programs, and big vision foster big physical, emotional, and spiritual development.  It’s a place where staff, volunteers, and riders corporately mature in big ways regardless of age, station, or limitation.  I’ve been inspired by the evidences of transformation during my initial exposure – and not just in humans.  Every year True Vine adopts a horse from the equine equivalent of death row, and gives it another chance. 

In 2012 the chosen animal was a gravely ill Paint horse named Chloe who has now been nursed back to optimal health and happiness at True Vine.  Before and after pictures of Chloe can be accessed on the web site below.  Just click on the “programs” link, and then click on “horse rescue team.” 

http://www.truevineequestrian.org/

Otherwise, feel free to look around on the site and catch a few glimpses of riders in action.  The pictures testify to this as a big place that encourages big growth and development of individual potential.

I guess it’s a big deal that even two days later I continue to rehash the eye-opening stories shared at the banquet. I’m overwhelmed with gratitude that our grand-boys can benefit from the exemplary vision, commitment, sacrifice, faith, and plain old hard work that fuel True Vine, and trust that with further exposure they will experience a foundational True Vine reality: personal freedom on the back of a horse.

Captivated

Six adventurous adults and seven equally venturesome children (all family members) explored the frozen lake this afternoon.

Our daughter and four-year-old granddaughter sculpted a carrot-nosed, stick-armed man at the edge of the rink (cleared ice compliments of Grampa's snow blower).  He wore a jaunty striped scarf and of course a Purdue hat.  Her husband and their two-year-old daughter shaped the snow-Boilermaker's naked snow-child nearby.

Others fashioned a horseshoe-shaped fort, the perfect stage to invite snowball fights.  Wham….wham, WHAM!  Some strode out into uncharted territory (we call this an “ice hike”), cutting paths through the fresh snow.  Various kids took turns in the oversized stroller-on-skis, a recent invention for our special needs grandson that is finding favor with everyone else as well! 

We retreated to the house after a long hard playtime, and for several hours the little kids napped like logs while the little-bit-bigger kids sat glued to movies and the adults hung out in the hot tub.  Then we all rallied and headed for the ice again with the wrought iron fire pit, plastic lawn furniture, and a sled of food in tow.

As the sun dropped beneath the horizon, it shed a metallic glow over the frozen lake. By now everyone was half-starved (the baby kept doing baby sign for ‘more please’); it was past dinnertime. We lit a fire in the fire pit (yes, out on the ice, it really is okay), roasted hot dogs, and heated up chili.  Darkness fell. While eating winter-picnic-style, an unexpected friend arrived.

The moon.

Its full face topped the trees, suspended in ink-black.  Moonlight reflected from the snow spreading like white satin on every side.  Stars peeked from the opposite side of the sky. The effect was spectacular.  Beyond dazzling.

I breathed in and out slowly, intentionally, reminding myself that this scene was actual and not imagined.  I was moonstruck, sitting on ice in a plastic lawn chair with two precious little girls in my lap (one on each knee).  Fire flickered above the ice, orange and yellow flames dancing to the noiseless song of the winter night breeze. The solid shoreline waited for us to return at the right time.  Meanwhile, our cauldron of chili bubbled and steamed, and I was held captive by the magnificence of simplicity and belonging in the midst of nature’s elements: Fire. Wind. Water. Earth. 

Manville

Yesterday evening my hubby’s long-time fishing buddy drove for 4 hours to visit us here in the Midwestern northland (if you can figure that out) for the privilege of freezing to death out on the ice in front of our house.  Upon his arrival the guys sidestepped the frozen lake, however, in lieu of the hot tub where they languished in front of swirling jets with Irish whiskey until 1:00 a.m.  

A hearty sausage-and-egg breakfast kicked off the morning, then they hauled the auger and sled filled with various stunted-looking poles and baits and techno-gear (a fish finder with circular strobe-like flashing lights, for goodness sake) out on the frozen expanse.  They returned empty-handed, having had not even a single nibble. 

After a chili-and-cornbread lunch with homemade berry pie for dessert, they fell asleep in the Man Cave (TV room) in front of a basketball game.  Then it was up-and-at-em again, back on the ice for another try in another frigid, wind-swept spot.  A couple of hours later, I walked out to visit them. So this is how old men have fun - sitting in Siberia looking at holes in the ice?  I don't get it.

But they were elated with their catch: 18 fish, 8 keepers.  Back home, they started a celebratory fire in the fireplace. Adventure (in their minds, or panic, in mine) erupted when ominous smoke rolls billowed  into the house because of a malfunctioning flu.  I turned off the thermostat and we ran around opening all the doors and windows - brrrrrrrr - amidst exaggerated banter (the normative male coping mechanism). Our 34-year-old son, the most spry male in the group, climbed on the roof and fiddled with the frozen cap to remediate the situation.  Ah, at last the fire flickered happily, and relative normalcy returned. The men cleaned their fish, ate my manly marinated beef and venison steaks, and picked “Tom Dooley” on the new banjo.

Now it’s 10:30 0.m. and they’re back out in the hot tub, sock caps on their heads, steam pouring into the night sky, stories in full swing.  It’s definitely Manville around here this weekend.

Pollyanna Quotient

We all know a Pollyanna – a blindly naïve person whose head is waaaay up in the clouds of super-optimism.  The term comes from the book, Pollyanna, a best-selling 1913 children’s novel by Eleanor H. Porter.

But what percentage of me (or you) is a Pollyanna? 

 I just took an online quiz to determine my overall “Pollyanna Quotient.”  I scored - are you ready? - a big fat ZERO.  My official report at the end of the test went like this:

Zero Percent Pollyanna. Pollyanna tendencies maybe, but you have no clear signs of Pollyanna behaviors. This means you don't necessarily view life as perfect. Regardless, you don't let life get you down. You are generally upbeat no matter what the situation. 

Now - how to decipher my aero score, and this reference to a “tendency” or inclination toward Pollyanna-ism?  By choice I would like to lean more toward hopeful realism than idealistic dreams, although I like being visionary in the right way, at the right time.  Everyone needs to peek behind the cloud’s silver lining while simultaneously slaying dragons or changing diapers down below.  For me, this shift in focus is an opportunity to bring the dragons and diapers into divine perspective.

I’d like to claim that last sentence in the evaluation, but honestly, I’m as human as the next person.  I fall prey to downbeat emotions.  Still, the downers don’t go as deep into the slimy emotional well pits or last as long as they used to. “Generally upbeat” feels like a compliment.  I’ll take it.  

__________

An interesting postscript: Evidently the human brain, at least some of the time, may process pleasant information more precisely than unpleasant information, such that we remember past experiences as sugarcoated and more rosy than they actually occurred.  This has come to be called the “Pollyanna Principle.”  It implies that we (meaning most if not all of us) may at times have a selective Pollyanna-like memory.

Crossing Over

I remember a special ceremony, eons ago, when I “flew up” in Scouting.  A simple wooden bridge, maybe a yard long and 6” high, was decorated on one side with a rainbow poster. I walked over it, leaving Brownies forever and entering the realm of Girl Scouts: a low-level rite of passage.

In similar fashion, it felt like the hubby and I crossed over another bridge today into Seniorville.  We are now card-carrying members of our county’s Senior Center with all the rights and responsibilites inherent thereto (trying to sound official here).

We decided to get involved at this Center because of the fitness room, which offers great cardio and weight machines.  However, there’s a lot more going on - a Book Club and Writing Club, Tae Kwon Do and Tai Chi Classes, a Card Making Class and Knitting Group.  There’s a Computer Assistance Class, of course, and more. After today’s fitness orientation (I gave the treadmill a whopping good workout, by the way) we toured some other parts of the facility to watch a few activites in progress – like a Dance Club meeting adjacent to the lunchroom.

Four couples had the floor to themselves.  One in particular caught my eye – a wispy, flyaway-fragile woman in the arms of a stooped-over giant wearing clompy, thick-soled shoes resembling boots.  They box-stepped together, making a small 6” square on the shiny linoleum floor, her slender slippered-feet so small against his armored ones.  The woman’s angular facial features reminded me, with eerie similitude, of my grandmother’s.  Forward, side-close…back, side-close…forward, side-close…back, side-close.  They swayed in tandem, a single well-practiced unit. I felt she might surely melt into the floor except for him: a supportive, shining white knight.

Everyone looked so old, and yet I also belonged.  My new membership card said so. I watched the dancers hold each other close, lost in their dreamy waltz, and wondered if we might join them someday.

Little One

She lay quietly beside me, her white-blonde curls cascading across the pillow like coils of silk, my heart throbbing gratitude in my chest.  We’d read our handpicked stories (Winnie the Pooh and an antiquated Golden Book); we’d waited beneath the fringed green afghan for the nap to come.  When she buried her face in one of my arms, and I encircled her with the other, her eyes finally closed and her little body lay still.  Her breath smelled sweet in my face.    

Oh-so-slowly I pulled myself away and slipped off the bed, careful to not disturb Sleeping Beauty. She need not say or do anything to merit the title, just BE. Finally standing, I reveled in her stunning loveliness.

How true for us all, I thought...how we worship beauty and long to be beautiful!  If only we might learn to see each other as children wearing grown-up clothes, little beauties who have forgotten or run away from this…exquisiteness…and are trying so hard to convince ourselves and each other of innate value that has been there all along.

The Story on Wheat

I’ve known for many years that I could never be best friends or even buddies with wheat. We just never got along...and as a clingy companion, wheat forced attention and literally made me sick. 

But did I eat it?  Of course.  Grilled cheese sandwiches and Grape-Nuts were childhood staples. I lived on crackers with cheese or peanut butter in college.  As a young mother, I dutifully stretched the meat with noodle casseroles. In my 40’s, I literally lived on broken cookies and cake tops as a bakery owner.  But all this at a price.

I felt ill, and craved more of what made me unwell.  Sometimes my heart raced.  Other times my head seemed in a fog. 

In the last decade or so, I’ve suspected reasons for my wheat intolerance, but only discovered the real underlying culprit a couple of days ago.  Simply stated, modern hybridized wheat + liberal consumption = compounding toxicity.

I need to make a point, here.  We think we’re doing ourselves a favor to eat lots of wheat, right?  After all, it’s on the bottom of the USDA Food Pyramid. (This thanks to the grain growers on the committee.) 100% whole wheat is even better for us, we think.  Mmmmm, we do love our bread, pasta, crackers, cookies and more!  And why shouldn’t so many processed foods contain wheat in one form or another?  It’s the staff of life.  The good stuff.

But I have news.

A wheat berry grown in our country since around 1960, with its 40-some chromosomes, is nothing like the simpler, significantly more nutritious, less glutinous ancient wheat grains originating in the Mesopotamian Fertile Crescent with genetic make-ups of half as many chromosomes.  Agribusiness growers in this country, motivated primarily by financial gain, have hybridized wheat – inserted goat grass through genetic tinkering, for one thing. The hybrid has produced much higher yields of a nutritionally inferior grain that requires more fertilizers and pesticides (another knotty issue) and is notorious for more complex gluten that is hard for human physiology to digest and use.  As a result, gluten-related epidemics have emerged in full swing.  For example, hybridized gluten crosses the blood-brain barrier and ends up playing havoc with neurology - yuck.

There’s so much more to this story, but allow me to summarize the main point with a true-to-life testimony.  Our daughter’s friend travels extensively because of her work.  She is severely gluten intolerant at home in the States, but in other parts of the world is not troubled by wheat at all and enjoys bread with no problem.  Bingo.  Proof.

I’ve been in research mode the last few days, and have discovered there are still several places in the US and Canada where ancient wheat is being grown.  It goes by several names: einkorn, kamut, or simply Turkey Red.  Collectively, these wheat varieties may be referred to as “heritage wheat.” Yes, they're all expensive.  But for some people, they represent the only wheat worth eating. 

In closing, I should add that these wheat varieties are not the solution for celiac patients since they still contain gluten - although much less, and of a friendlier kind.  But they could be of great help to many Americans: one source suggests 30% of us don’t tolerate modern wheat well, and another estimates 50%.  The thing is, those with wheat intolerance get used to feeling a certain way (decent, if not perfect) and assume that to be their normal state.  Only when gluten is eliminated, or at least severely reduced, do they notice significant changes – perhaps an impressive lessening of symptoms like bloating, exhaustion, tingling, pain, depression, and/or irritability. 

Could it be true for you?

In the Dark of the Night

I awake too early this morning and squint at the fiery red numbers on the digital clock.  It’s 4:30, and I squirm with realization: we forgot to wheel our trash to the curb for early Monday morning pick-up. Reluctantly, I slither from between the warm blankets, slide my bare feet into boots, and don a winter coat without bothering to zip it. With crumpled, matted schizo-hair, I stealthily turn the doorknob leading outdoors so as not to wake my man. The door doesn’t make a sound.  Good job.

Outside, the dumpster’s lid refuses to open when I attempt to add a final contribution from the kitchen wastebasket - a smelly trash bag holding fetid odors reminiscent of sardines.  It is frozen shut, sealed with ice. My bare hands pound the stuck-shut lid like a drum face, and I shrink self-consciously from my own marauding clunks and bangs. Wham-wham-wham.  WHAM! There. The stubborn seal breaks and the cover succumbs.  Its hinge creaks too-too loudly and the dumpster yawns wide to receive the rank offering.

My boots crunch through dry snow.  The dumpster’s little black wheels roll along, rumbling low-pitched thunder noises as they advance across the yard.  Hopefully the husband and neighbors - and especially our near neighbor with the huge Burmese mountain dog - are sound asleep and not alarmed.  There’s a hint of adventure to all of this, exploring the normal boundaries in the grip of night, breaking the mold.  The fresh air fills my lungs and whole self: exhilarating.

However, I’m starkly alone out here with only my white breath and a week’s worth of trash for company.  Chillingly exposed, solitary, and strangely an alien in my own land. It’s a little bit creepy.  Suddenly a suspicious shadow (or perhaps an imagined one?) approaches from behind.  You know the feeling.  Something’s back there.  And it’s coming.  COMING.

The cuffs of my flannel pajama legs are hiked up almost to my knees as they were in bed, so my calves are bared to the cold.  I suddenly feel vulnerable and sorely misplaced.  I choke, unable to breathe, afraid to confess my fear even to myself.  I am able, however, to whisper a single name:

“Lord Jesus!”

His name is enough, and I recover my wits.  He loves me.  His love casts out fear.

I thoughtfully take my time scuffing down the snow-covered driveway and quietly reenter the house.  I kick off my boots, throw my coat over the back of the couch, and climb between the still-warm sheets.  Then I stare at the ceiling and think wow, I did a good thing by taking out the trash.  But even more, I did a victorious thing by conquering fear in the name of Jesus.

Beauty

I need beauty just as I need air - breathed in and out, coursing everywhere. 

As a younger adult, I had eyes for obviously beautiful renderings, the remarkable scripts and canvases of seemingly remarkable people who did seemingly remarkable things amidst seemingly remarkable circumstances.  This was beauty as the exception, surpassing common reality.  Dramatic nature scenes also stroked me as if with artist brushes, blending their beauty into my own soul: striking summer sunsets bled into autumn leaves that streaked madly toward soft blankets of winter snow preceding fresh, clean, new green.   Beauty coursed on and on, but usually in singular striking moments.

Although still inspired by such beautiful encounters, beauty shows up differently and much more often in this phase of life, in the ordinary and everyday, the smallest details, the minutiae.  The here and now.

Baby jabber, white-fluff hair smeared with applesauce.  A practiced, knowing look that says what words never could, never would.  Dirty pots and pans; meatloaf crust.  A Valentine scribbled all-over, studded with stickers. Too-tall piles of fresh laundry fallen in disarray on the floor. Fire ablaze in a granddaughter’s eyes.  Gray hairs, wrinkled fingers: age’s merit badges.

Today’s beauty, the evidence of life unfolding, followed me through every hour.  Sub-zero temperatures and a white coverlet of fresh snow embalmed the earth, as if with a protective promise to preserve it until the appointed time for new life to awaken.  A fussy, squirmy baby finally fell into heavy, peaceful sleep on my chest – pink-cheeked, cherubic loveliness.  Piano music transported me to memories of childhood’s tinkling music box that held exquisite baubles from the bubble gum machine.  An inspiring book and a few hours of thoughtful quiet reminded me where I am in the midst of it all: immersed.

Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.  How much do I see, how much do I want to see, how much am I able to see?  More, always more.

Keep Moving

It’s late at night: wintertime late, cold-and-bleak late, tired-bordering-on-exhausted late.  White snow-streaks drill the inky night like a throng of snakes that strike the car windshield and repeatedly blind us.  Another white-out. We're caught in a night blizzard, again.

The road home seems barely distinguishable with so much snow cover, and the headlights hardly sufficient.  Our car creeps forward one painstaking mile at a time; minutes drag like those counting stubborn labor pains.  This is a test of resolve, patience, and faith.


I remind myself to breathe deep and long, and trust the driver. We can’t clearly see the way or manipulate a clean path, although the necessity remains….keep moving.

The goal pulls us onward: HOME. The place we do life. The belonging place of acceptance-with-joy lies ahead of us, predictable and sure.  IT IS THERE, WAITING.  

And in those drawn-out moments with the heater blasting dry dragon-breath and the wheels crushing layers-upon-layers of crystalline snowflakes, I remind myself that KEEP MOVING applies to everything.  KEEP MOVING through the minutes and hours and days, KEEP MOVING toward my heavenly mansion. To stop forward momentum, to give up trying, is to invite death in the midst of life. There are always more miles to go before I sleep….so many miles to go before I sleep.

Vital Evanescence: Flesh and Blood

Yesterday we counseled with one of the physicians on our current medical team - a wise, experienced DO who dares to integrate innovative modalities into his practice.  The consult was refreshingly optimistic - not fraught with typical synthetic promises, impersonal charts and statistical numbers, and fearful warnings of spine-chilling side effects.  It was genuinely hopeful.

I relish the resulting upswing.  It’s encouraging to work with a medical professional who is respectful of human flesh and blood as divinely created – one who supports the body with its sinews, bones, platelets, and minute mitochondria as both a divine gift and a scientific marvel housing an eternal soul.

The current lap of our health journey is challenging us to reevaluate goals (more seriously explore and support the body’s self-healing properties rather than just manage symptoms) and modify lifestyle habits away from convenience and desire toward responsibility.  It’s a spiritual journey as well as a gritty marathon requiring strong will and stamina. We’re feeling challenged to care for our miraculous bodies as a test, a way to manifest faith.

Are there guarantees for healing?  In a word, no.  Rather, I am grateful for a renewed vista, an opportunity to steward my physical self as vital evanescence:

“It is by the body that we come into contact with nature, with our fellowman, with all their revelations to us.  It is through the body that we receive all the lessons of passion, of suffering, of love, of beauty, of science.  It is through the body that we are both trained outward from ourselves, and driven inward into our deepest selves to find God.  There is glory and might in this vital evanescence*, this slow glacier-like flow of clothing and revealing matter, this ever uptossed rainbow of tangible humanity.  It is no less of God’s making than the spirit that is clothed therein.”

-George MacDonald (C.S. Lewis’ mentor), Unspoken Sermons; The God of the Living

*state of gradually fading away, as with a rainbow

Valentines

I love sending Valentines – small outward proofs of inner commitment.

Today I received several personal Valentines, all uniquely special. At the risk of turning you off (it might sound like I’m tooting my horn or being overly schmaltzy) I’m posting descriptions here.  Travel at your own risk.  They’re good. 

One, from my sweet hubby of 41+ years, said this (bear with me, it’s too heart-stopping not to share): “You’ve held my hand in celebration and in sorrow, you’ve held my dreams like they were your very own, you’ve held me close through all the ups and downs of real life and real love – no wonder you’ll always hold my heart.”  This took me to the moon and back, mostly because it’s true. The card accompanied classic love language in tangible form: three mammoth long-stemmed red roses and a box of chocolates.

An emailed Valentine arrived from my inspiring public high school teacher-friend who happens to be devoid of all visual reality – in other words, blind.  She honored me with an anniversary-turned-Valentine greeting:  “Today is thirteen years of knowing you, starting across the little table at Silver Mountain Coffee Shop.  Here’s to a beautiful friendship and to the love of a friend who makes me stronger by winding around me like a supporting vine.  May she be blessed today.”  I AM blessed by her friendship, today and every day.

Still another Valentine came from a 93-year-old residing in an assisted living facility.  It took me totally by surprise. She is my childhood best friend’s mother, and the woman who became my surrogate parent while my own mother wrestled with chronic depression. At her 90^th birthday party several years ago, I reminded her, “You know, you were my ‘other mother.’”  She loved that.

Inside her Valentine card she complimented my “outlook on life” and the family picture I’d sent at Christmas-time, but also recorded for posterity the magical words every young (and old) child longs to hear: “I am proud of you.”  A rough, hand-scrawled heart held original verse:

Roses are red,

Violets are blue.

If I could have another daughter

I would choose YOU!

Broadsided by a whale-wave of gratitude, I literally stopped breathing. Despite my almost non-existent attentions at this late stage of her life, she’d bestowed upon me the ultimate gift: mother-love.  As a child I’d felt her adoptive commitment, and yet all these years later, here was proof.

Generational Salad Dressings

I started making salad dressings as soon as I was married, with Celery Seed and Spinach Dressings (the latter was affectionately nicknamed “Red”) emerging as permanent favorites.  I also catered to preferences for thick Thousand Island, Honey Mustard, and Bleu Cheese, but they were too gloppy and nasty-delicious to become regulars. Real killers.

But anyway, these favorite two dressings (Celery Seed and Spinach) have gone through seasons of evolution over the past 40+ years.  Both of the original first-generation recipes (in the first decade of marriage) called for sugar, vinegar, and salad oil, among other things.  In the second-generation varieties, the sugar bowed out to a favored option, honey.  Everyday oil like corn or safflower gave place to the new kid on the block, canola. 

In the third generation (decade), components continued to change like mutating genetic code.  Commercial honey was replaced, at least in part, with agave nectar and/or stevia – and when honey was used, it was raw rather than cooked. Extra-virgin olive oil (or avocado or walnut, if I felt queenly and extravagant) replaced canola, safflower, or some other oil from seeds. 

And in the fourth generation (decade) sea salt replaced sodium chloride.  Distilled vinegar, or even commercial apple cider vinegar, went by the wayside in favor of Bragg’s raw apple cider vinegar with the beneficial “mother.”

I sense you probably don’t want to know about the “mother” right now.  We’ll save that for later.

Why all the ongoing fuss over salad dressing, you ask?  Because.  We all could benefit from more rabbit food (a fact of life), but the dressing makes or breaks the salad.  What good is a pristine bowl of fresh greens overflowing with living enzymes, antioxidants, fiber, and important vitamins and minerals, if it is denatured with vile dressing? 

The standard American dressing, Hidden Valley Ranch, is a mean critter.  It puts on a happy face - even little kids like it - but the ingredient listing might as well be an attack dog.  MSG is toxic to the human body and predisposes us to migraines and serious neurological conditions.  Refined sugar and chemicals are also hazardous (think drug-like, addictive, disruptive), as is soy oil, the main ingredient that can encourage thyroid dysfunction and increase risks for chronic disease.

I don’t know if there will be a fifth generational shift in my dressing ingredients or not; the current versions seem squeaky clean unless new data emerges to change my mind (which has obviously happened before).  All I know is that when it comes to dressings, I’m gradually becoming okay with less: simple splashes of olive oil and freshly squeezed lemon juice with a little sea salt and freshly ground pepper are enough.