Music Soothes the Savage Beast

According to Runner's World, there is a lot of controversy in the running community about the use of personal music devices.  There are those that think running with an ipod or similar device poses risks to the runner, and to others who share the road with them.  Loud music distracts the listener from her surroundings and increases the chance of a runner vs. bike or runner vs. car scenario.  Or so the critics say.  Proponents of the practice cite increased motivation and decreased boredom while on the road.  Personally, I'm a music junkie.  I love working out to music, even if it's the blaring, distorted hip hop or wailing alternative my local gym enjoys cranking out of tinny speakers.  There are aspects of silent running I enjoy, however...the way my thoughts can float through my mind in a free fall of consciousness.  I believe, though, that there is nothing like running along a trail on a cool, misty morning with your favorite music swirling in your head.

As with most people, music tends to mark specific times in life.  Of course there's the pop culture tunes that most of us grow up listening to.  In my case, along with U2, it was Paula Abdul, Sting, Bon Jovi, Madonna, and various soundtracks.  I can remember the song I danced my first slow dance to, or the song they played for years on network TV during April and May, at the height of high school graduation..."This is the tiiiime to remember, 'cause it will not last forever."

Music, for me, helps me move my feet.  Although I do enjoy the occasional jaunt without my ipod, for the most part I'm always listening to something.  On one of my gym workouts last month I geared myself up for a long (for me) run.  I changed, made sure I had water bottle, wallet, and hair tie, dropped off the girls at grandma's, drove to the gym, and climbed on the treadmill.  But when I pushed the play button on the ipod strapped to my arm...nothing.  Battery dead.  Completely dead.  I think I stood there for about thirty seconds wondering what to do, and even considered asking someone if I could borrow theirs for a short while (I know, preposterous, but I was almost desperate.)  I ended up doing the run anyway, listening to the distorted hip hop blaring from the tinny speakers overhead.  I ended up running to several worship songs playing in my head.  I help lead worship at our Wednesday evening service so I'm able to keep up with a lot of the Christian music trends.  It helped.  But it wasn't the same.

My half marathon anthem is "I'm Gonna Go Crazy If I Don't Go Crazy Tonight".  Don't let the title mislead you.  It's an up tempo declaration of persistence, of encouragement.  It's an artistic melody of change.  

"It's not a hill, it's a mountain, as you start out the climb.  Listen for me I'll be shouting...but we're gonna make it all the way to the light..." or in my case, "line", as in finish line.  Although I still have my doubts about that.  Because in the end, I know it'll be me WITHOUT my ipod, as I believe they're "illegal" in the Two Cities race.  I'll puff through the race in the cool mist of the early morning, and my music will still be swirling around in my head.  After all, it's really a "mental game", isn't it?  And the music in my head will help me as much as the music in my ears.  

Music can soothe the savage beast, praise God, and keep the tired runner from falling.  

In my case, it will help get me through. And I know I'll need all the help I can get.

The Long Run

Two months ago I had never run longer than three miles in my life.  When I signed up for this crazy thing called M*A*S*H the realization never really became concrete that I would be training to run 13.1 miles.  Somehow, I thought I'd do a couple of nice workouts a week, ask the trainers about an achy knee or a stiff muscle, then jog the 13.1 miles with energy in my legs and a smile in my heart.  Little did I know.

This journey has been a bit like uncovering a treasure.  I'm digging it up shovelful by shovelful, piece by piece.  Sometimes I'll uncover a truly precious gem...the one minute it took  Roland to explain to me about having your footfalls land in a line, rather than far apart from each other, is one of those gems.  Since adjusting my form my strides have become easier and, dare I say, a bit faster.  Another treasure I discovered is the advice I gleaned from "Jogging and Running for Idiots", (my cousin really snickered at me when I bought that one at a used bookstore in San Francisco...thanks for the support, Bach) which explained that those who are running a half or full marathon should not waste time with intervals shorter than 400m.  200m intervals are fine for those running 5ks, but longer intervals are more suited to longer distances.  When I started doing fast 400m intervals with 200m recoveries, I felt stronger and faster at the next long run.   A lightbulb moment.

One time, however, I uncovered something I didn't like.  I was browsing through the MASH website when I stumbled upon the training schedule.  I skimmed the Saturday runs and saw the plan...four miles, five, seven, ten...ten miles?!  Ten miles for a training run?  How on earth was I ever going to do that? 

My first long run was a four miler.  At the time I had no idea how far I was going.  I didn't even know where I was half the time.  Once around the river bottom, then to the first bridge and back.  I remember trying to keep another runner in sight for fear of getting lost.  I remember being warm and sweaty, and gratefully downing the water offered back up at the Eaton Trail.  Then Mike directed me to go "to the first bridge and back" to finish out the run.  I remember plodding along, thinking, "Where on earth is this gosh forsaken bridge?!"  Needless to say, I survived.

On the five mile run we had to run along the Eaton Trail to the gazebo and back.  I had such an irrational sense of exhilaration, and even joy, as I stood at the gazebo looking out over the bluff.  It was a first for me.  Five miles.  I was getting through.

Six miles was on the Old Clovis Trail.  Starting at the Medical Ministries warehouse, the trail took us along a shady path and across parking lots to where Jeff and Mike stood.  It's always nice to see them on a run-they either represent water or a turnaround point.  And a nice dose of encouragement.  I turned and ran fairly strongly back to the warehouse...then helped pack some medical supplies for shipment along with the other MASHers.  We learned more about MMI and came away with a deeper understanding of why we were running.  It was a real eye opener.

Seven miles was two days ago.  I was so freaked out about going seven miles I was singing gospel songs to myself as I was getting ready (as you FB people already know.)  Eaton Trail, left down the path to the road, then along the road to the Holloway (?) House.  I started fairly strong, but slow, and jogged most of the way with a friend, Heather, who was back after nursing an injury.  She walked most of the way while I jogged, which tells you a little about our respective speeds, although in my defense she's taller than me with longer legs.  It was hot, I was hot, I needed water, and my breathing and heart rate were fine but by the end of the run my legs were giving out on me.  If not for Kelly, who ran nine and a half miles then turned back to run the rest of the way with us, I probably would have walked my way in.  Instead, I picked up the pace and finished strong.  Then I gulped my water, drove home, showered, and fell in bed for a nap.  

So I have quite a few more to go.  Next month I think we're going to be up to ten miles.  Ten miles.  That's like from my house to People's Church.  That's going around a track forty times.  That's, for me, about two hours of running, about a thousand calories burned.  

As I'm sitting here in a cool house typing this, at least a month away from attempting ten miles, I say, "bring it on."  But check back with me three and a half weeks from now...I may be starting a whole new set of gospel songs to get me through.

"Pass me not, O gentle Savior..."

That's a good one.  I don't need anyone else passing me.  I'm slow enough as it is.

Until the next run...

Adidas vs. Brooks: Finding the Perfect Shoe, part 1

Remember back in the 90s when the Nike Air Jordans first hit the stores?  Finally, the answer to many young basketball player's prayers...the perfect shoe.  The formula was simple-beg your parents, find the store, find the size, drop the $100 plus dollars and hit the playground with a new swagger in your step.  With these shoes, a player could jump higher, run faster, and hit the basket with a one handed dunk, tongue out, spectators cheering.  Of course, many of these dreams were not realized on the court, but having the perfect basketball shoe went a long way in upping your cool status.  

Finding the perfect running shoe is a bit harder, and much more important, to an amateur runner training for an event.  The right shoes absorb the shock with each footfall (up to three times your body weight!) allow plenty of room for toes in the toe box, and last for miles without losing too much support.  Being a voracious reader, I had researched shoes when I first started jogging.  I learned about pronation, supination, and motion control.  I loved the Runner's World spring and fall shoe reviews.  I compared different models on the internet and browsed the aisles at Sports Authority.  But, due to expense and the fact that I was more of a recreational jogger than a "real" runner, I had never gone to a specialty running store to get fitted, which is the most recommended way of buying your first good pair of training shoes.

So after a long Saturday run and an informative shoe clinic at Sierra Running Company I was finally ready to take the plunge.  I had discovered that my flat feet caused me to over pronate, which led to painful arches and shin splints, among other possible injuries.  And it was true!  After every run in my cheap Nike cross trainers my arches ached and throbbed.  My poor toes were cramped in the front of the shoe, and my discount store inserts did little to support my non existent arches.  

I was concerned, at first, that I might have been buying in to the snake oil and sleight of hand of the crafty salesman, but everything I had learned at the shoe clinic was affirmed in all of the research I had done previously.  So with bated breath and a budget, my husband and I dropped the girls off at grandma's and headed to Sierra Running Company.

The store was fairly busy for a Tuesday afternoon.  We were helped immediately, however, by a young woman with a pleasant demeanor.  I was asked to walk in my socks to the front of the store as she knelt and peered at my feet and ankles.  She stood almost immediately and announced that I had flat feet and was over pronating.  She then walked briskly into the back room and returned with two boxes of shoes.  I tried on at least six pairs...Adidas, Brooks, Saucony.  The only brand that was conspicuously absent was Nike.  What, no Air Jordans?  Not even a Nike Shox?  But these thoughts were chased out of my mind the moment I stood after lacing up the Brooks Ariel.  It felt like my knees popped out into a more comfortable position and my feet were now resting in their proper place.  They were made, as I read in a review later on, for "heavy runners with flat-as-a-pancake feet", which described me to a T!  The shoes felt great, and my mind soared with the possibilities of pain free running, shaving minutes off my mile time, and soaring past the finish line with tongue out (I'll probably be really thirsty) and spectators cheering.    

The Brooks, however, were not cheap.  Even with my 10% MASH discount they were the most expensive shoes I had ever looked at.  And to a...I'll not say "cheap", I'll say "thrifty" shopper like me, parting with the money wasn't easy.  But this was an investment.  Training to run 13.1 miles in the wrong shoe would only set me up for injury.  And what would I accomplish on the sidelines with shin splints and throbbing feet?  With a little prayer I handed over the money and took the box home.  

Now to put the shoes to the test.

Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!

My husband liked to tease me when I first started "running".  He used to say that he could walk as fast as I ran.  And it was true, too, but at the time I would think, "So? At least I can keep it up for a while."  And I also thought that in time I would get fitter, stronger, and faster.  Fast forward seven years, and in the place of that runner stands a thin, wiry, fit woman who easily keeps up a nine minute per mile pace for four miles.

Er...not quite.

Before I go any farther in this musing, I would like to state three things: a)I KNOW it doesn't matter how fast I go, just as long as I get there. b) I KNOW I will become faster and stronger as long as I continue working hard. c) This is NOT a whiny showcase of low self-esteem.  You don't have to encourage me with a "No, you're doing great!" although those comments go a LONG WAY in helping me continue.  No, this is just a field note about where I am in this journey, and it will help me appreciate how far I've come when I get to my destination.

So back to the thin, wiry, fit woman.  I'll be the first to say I am neither thin (well rounded is how I like to describe myself,) wiry (more like stout,) and my "race pace" is a blistering twelve minutes per mile on a good run.  

I suppose it does bear saying that I had two long breaks in my seven year running career.  The first was when my daughter Mia was born in 2005.  I probably didn't get back into the rhythm of running for at least a year.  Then in 2007, when my second daughter Nikki was born, I quit running for another year.  In the summer of 2008 I joined a gym and started weight training, took a few group exercise classes, and around February of this year got on the treadmill and started slowly cranking up the speed.  And by "cranking up" I mean starting off at 4.0, then 4.5, then 5.0...two miles in 30 minutes, two miles in 28 minutes...I remember how much I worked to get my two miles down to 24 minutes or so.  I should add, however, that this was with a quarter mile or so of walking to warm up.  Then, in May of this year, I saw the little blurb in the People's Church bulletin..."Think you could never run a marathon?  Well, you can!"   That was all I needed, that and a little prayer to push me completely out of my running comfort zone and into the world of half marathon training.

It's both exhilarating and intimidating to train with a group.  A person finds out she's not the only runner in the world.  She also finds out she's not the fastest, or the slowest (if you include the walkers, God bless their souls,) the most fit, or the most out of shape.  But it certainly is an eye opener when you think you've been working hard and realize you are probably one of the slowest, if not THE slowest, runner in the group.  

I've been lapped several times by the trainers when out at the track.  Yes, these are the trainers, the "elite" of our little group.  But I've also watched in dismay during a Saturday run as an older lady with a bum knee slowly pulled away from me, then disappeared.  I was passed last week by just about everyone running the five miles, and some even doing the six, even though I turned back early out of concern for a friend.  I gasp on intervals at an 8mph pace.  I run out of gas so quickly on striders it's almost like someone pricked a balloon with a pin and *pffpfffffff*....aaand she's down!  

But I will continue on.  On my last run at the gym in my brand new shoes I did three miles in under 40 minutes, even though it felt like I had two concrete blocks strapped to my feet (more on that in the next post.)  So I am doing better.  I can go farther, if not all that much faster.  I can do the "warm ups"- although for me it's more of a workout-the skipping, high knee running, etc., with Roland fairly easily.  I can puff through a few 200m intervals at, say, an 8:30 minute pace fairly well.  I think I'm getting faster on the Saturday runs, although it's nearly impossible to tell for sure how far I go.  

So I'm not going to quit.  I'm not going to quit, and I'm going to continue trying to up my speed.  I may not be fast in my legs, but I'm fast in my mind.  And someday, the two just might meet up.  The fastest I've ever run a mile was in junior high when I was on the volleyball team.  A monumental 9:27 minute mile.  It was such an accomplishment I remember the time to this day.  And if I can ever do that again, I'm sure the time will be locked into my brain with all of my other hard earned accomplishments, large or small.

I was on Runner'sworld.com the other day and was reading John "The Penguin" Bingham's blog about running for no one else but yourself.  He'd said he was finishing a half marathon and was nearing the finish line when the crowd started cheering.  "What!" he thought.  "Are they cheering for me?" Then he realized the leader of the marathon runners was about to cross the finish line ahead of him.  But John didn't let this bother him.  He realized his accomplishment of finishing the half was just as remarkable as the other man's winning the marathon.  After all, he stated, "The miracle wasn't that I finished.  The miracle was that I had the courage to start."

Until the next run...

Coming soon..."Adidas vs. Brooks: Finding the Perfect Shoe"

Sunrise, Sunset

I have a love/hate relationship with Saturday mornings now.  First day of the weekend, Tony's off work, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  What's not to love?  On the other hand, getting up at 5:45am, driving twenty minutes, meeting the other MASHers for a nice long run.  

When I was in school I hated getting up in the mornings.  Anything before ten o' clock was too early, and I would habitually stay in bed until the very last minute before throwing back the covers, washing up, eating, and running out the door to the carpool/bus stop/car.  It got to the point where, if I didn't get at least seven hours of sleep (preferably nine) I would be bleary eyed for most of the morning and have uncomfortable knots in my stomach until I got to take a nap after school.

So voluntarily waking BEFORE six in the morning was inconceivable to me just a few short weeks ago!  Oh, I would wake early for college classes, and later, for work as a teacher at an elementary school, but neither commitment got me out of bed before six-thirty.  I would schedule most college classes for mid-morning and was blessed with only a ten to fifteen minute commute to work, thus allowing me to continue the stay-in-bed-until-the-last-possible-minute routine.

I must admit I found out about the 6:30am Saturday morning long runs only AFTER I had signed up with MASH.  But, surprisingly, there was only a moment of "What have I done?"  I consoled myself by remembering that I could nap later in the day, or even in mid-morning, since Tony would be able to watch the girls.  

I never realized before just how beautiful sunrises are.  I've seen countless sunsets; those in my parent's neighborhood as the sun set over the empty bluffs were amazing.  I've seen the sun set on the California coast and off the shores of Hawaii, where a dazzling white line skims the top of the sun as it sinks seemingly into the water.  But I may have seen one, maybe two sunrises, and these I don't remember.  

There seems to be a different look to a sunrise as compared to a sunset.  Sunrises are brighter, with more whites and pinks and grays reflecting off of the clouds, if any.  Sunsets are more orange and red and yellow and fade quickly into the dark that follows on its heels.  Both are beautiful, both stir something in the soul, both remind me of God's presence in the world.  

When I drive eastward towards the sunrise I am struck with the realization of how many things a person can miss when the box we have carved in the world stays closed.  What passes us by when we make no effort to change, to try, to succeed.  When I step out of my car into the chilly dawn air I realize that yes, I did wake before six in the morning, and yes, I have survived.   And then I wonder, what other things am I capable of?

Coming soon..."Could I Possibly Be Any Slower?!"

And So It Begins...

So I just got back from my first Thursday training run for the Two Cities Half Marathon.  I'm running with MASH-I don't remember what it stands for and am too lazy right now to check-but they (we, I suppose) are a group that is raising funds for Medical Ministries International.  This organization provides medical supplies and basic medical care to nations around the globe.  

The team meets on Saturdays for a long run, and on Tuesdays and Thursdays for training runs.  The Saturday run is the more important of the three, as this is where distance training takes place.  Tonight we did intervals, which is slow runs interspersed with sprinting.

I arrived at Rio Vista school at about 6:50pm, elated that the location was so close to where we live.  I'm used to getting in the car and driving for at least 20 minutes when attending church events or visiting friends.  This was a five minute drive!  Yay!  There were about four or five people milling in front of the bleachers that faced the track.  I walked over and introduced myself.

Now, let me be clear that I have never, ever, run a race before.  Not a 5k, 10k, not even a two mile walk/run.  I pray it was the Holy Spirit that possessed me to sign up for this.  The Spirit, and the opportunity of getting to wear a team t-shirt and experiencing the bond that comes with reaching a difficult goal.  

Everyone was very nice.  Most were beginning runners, one was a walker; one girl was young and relatively small (relative to me...I consider myself big bone-ded) and looked fast.  I talked to a few as we waited for the coaches.  

It was pleasant to see a familiar face come towards us...Shane H.  I had gone to junior high and high school with him, and later ran into him occasionally at People's.  He is now a pastor at Northpoint, and has as much energy now as he did then, according to one of the others.

So we began.  We walked, we ran, we jogged, we slogged.  I walked a bit in the beginning, then broke into a jog and tried to do a few intervals.  I have to say, the first mile or so was tough.  I think I started out too quickly and didn't warm up enough.  My breath was coming too fast and I felt like stopping after three laps.  Then I hit my stride and was able to run fairly well, with two or so walking breaks.  I was slow, but steady.  I quit with the intervals halfway through, because I wasn't going very fast on them anyway.  My legs were already tired from a hard run the day before, and refused to sprint.  I gladly complied.

But it was a great run.  I love it when it feels like my legs can go on running forever, even if pace is just a notch above walking.  I love the sweat, the effort.  I like the idea that I will be fitter, faster, and hopefully thinner next week, next month...and I wonder how my running will be in six months.  Will I be able to break an 11 minute per mile pace?  I didn't even know how fast I was running because I lost count of my laps after the third time around.  Will I be able to even finish 13.1 miles?  I've never gone more than 3.5 in my life.  Will I be able to even wake up early enough for the 6:30am (gasp!) Saturday runs?  

I like to think I'll do okay.  With God, lots of water and new shoes, I'll slog through.  And just might make a new friend or two along the way.

Until the next run...

Fitness Foray

I hated running when I was young.  To be specific, I hated running when it was a forced, timed, results based event, i.e., the twice yearly mile run.  I was introduced to this dreadful event in  junior high.  Around the small eighth of a mile track we had to slog eight times.  In high school, the track got bigger, the lap number smaller.  Four times around a seemingly huge rubbery oval.  

I also can't do a pull up.  Never could.  In elementary school we had the choice of doing a pull up, a flexed arm hang, or, for those of us who could do neither, a laying pull up, which involved laying on your back with your hands clasping a bar, and pulling your chin up to meet it.  Not fun.  I could do, say, three or four before I would get either tired or bored and stop.

I didn't mind the sit-ups or the sit and reach.  Both were fairly easy and quick to accomplish.  Most everyone knows about the sit-up.  I could do, say, forty or so in a minute. And the sit and reach...sitting on your hiney and stretching your arms across a marked board that measured flexibility was my type of exercise.  

This wasn't to say I was completely out of shape or had no athletic prowess.  I enjoyed sports; being a tomboy, I played my share of basketball, flag football, softball, and volleyball.  I was on the basketball team in fifth grade (although my esteemed career ended with the season,) on the softball and volleyball teams in sixth grade, then made the volleyball team in the seventh grade.  I loved to play, loved to move, and loved to chase.

I guess I just didn't like being graded on my fitness (or lack of.)

Fast forward twelve or so years.  I'm married, teaching in an incredibly emotionally wrenching assignment, and have just moved into a house...a house surrounded by empty fields that borders a canal running east to west.  A packed earthen path meanders through the fields, just right for an overweight, over stressed woman and her new walking partner, Cheswick.  Cheswick the dog was a stray.  As a puppy I found him nosing his way among the student's leftover lunches at the school I taught at.  He was about three months old when I called my husband and told him about "this puppy with floppy ears and big brown eyes".  "Bring him home," he said, surprising me no end.  And thus started a relationship that opened my eyes to the pleasures of fitness...of goals, running highs, itchy shins, and hopefully, a 5k race or triathlon someday.  

And the pull up?  I'm weight training now, and up to 15 and 20 pound weights.  But I have not attempted to do a pull up in years.  I can do 10 "guy style" push-ups and carry both girls for a short distance.  But I still don't know if I can spear the white whale of my fitness journey.  We'll see.  Stay tuned...

Well, in defense of breaking my once a week resolution...I've actually written a few things on Facebook, and write at least twice a week to my Hawaiian (Hawaiian as a resident, not a native) cousin, Stephanie.  And my emails to Stephanie are quite lengthy.  I seem to purge the writing bug through that outlet.  Then when it comes time to write a post ideas flit in and out of my head like tiny homeless birds.

I've been thinking, though, that I would like to try to put into words how music has affected and shaped my life.  Talk about lofty aspirations...how hard is that?  How does a person attempt to describe emotion, revelation, change?  To discuss the merits of Huey Lewis vs. Sting vs. U2?  To make another understand how I felt when singing Mozart's "Requiem" in college or when leading worship in the present day?  To convey the frustration of having dozens of poems and lyrics at the ready but lack the understanding of theory and composition to finish them?  

Maybe...slowly but surely, I'll let the words find the way.  Perhaps in the midst of all of this sorting, shaping, and revelation...I'll figure out how to finish those songs.  Perhaps I'll find the music hidden somewhere, deep in the memories of my past or in the hope of the future.  

Perhaps all I have to do is to simply give everything to God and try again.

Silencing the Inner Critic

Today on my walk with Cheswick I saw a sign taped to a streetlight on which was messily scrawled-"garage" "sale".  Yes, both words were in quotes.  I had to laugh to myself.  The misuse of quotes was readily apparent, and yet there the sign hung, drooping sadly on itself. 

As we continued our walk I reflected on other times I had seen quotation marks misused-mostly as attention getting devices ("huge" sale!).  Then I was reminded of some recent comments I had read on Facebook...usually with one person stating a pet peeve ("I can't stand the misuse of there/their/they're!") and another person agreeing ("I know!  How hard is it?")

One ironic post was of someone complaining about the incorrect use of "its" and "it's".  The comment stated boldly, "How hard is it too learn?" or something to that effect.  Hilarious, and yet so irritating.  I saw myself in those comments, quick to judge and yet as imperfect a writer as you could find.  The only person I would vent to when I noticed the occasional misspelled sign or poorly written article, however, was my husband.  And I was always careful to read and edit anything I wrote for fear of a misspelled word or misplaced quotation mark.

Seeing and reflecting on the garage sale sign helped me realize just how imperfect I am when it comes to punctuation, grammar, and sentence structure.  After all, a typical junior high English teacher would probably run out of red ink correcting the misuse of parenthesis and quotation marks in this short rumination.  Nowadays I'm careful about criticizing that with which I struggle myself, especially in a public forum.  I also have ceased wasting energy noting and commenting on other people's mistakes.  Don't we all struggle with something when it comes to the written word?  Whether you're feeling "good"or "bad" (are you going to give to the poor or torment a cat, then?) or telling your child to lay on the rug and lying the book on the table (I'm still not sure which is correct) or asking who or whom this pair of pants belongs to.  

When I achieve perfection in all I write or say I might resume being irked by other's mistakes.

Until then, I think I'll keep my inner editor to myself.

May I Ask You a Question...?

Two of my favorite questions to ask people are the quintessential probes into one's being.  The answers might reveal an abundance of useful information including clues to a person's personality, past, childhood environment, and degree of risk taking.  These two questions are, in order, "What's your favorite food?" and "What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?"

I love these questions.  I love to ask them when in casual conversation with a person I've known for a while-after the superficial details of hobbies, tv shows, and books have been explored.  Usually the questions are met with a slight furrow of the brow but this quickly changes to thoughtfulness.  Then the answers are given with an enthusiasm bordering on passion...love, hate, nostalgia or even a detailed reminiscence of traveling in a foreign land.

What's your favorite food, and why?  What's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  Some answer the first question with, "I don't know.  I don't have a favorite food." And I always wonder...is this because of the person's hesitance to make decisions?  Or does she just not know herself very well?  For me, food is such a deep-seated subject, rooted in the very fabric of our being.  It encompasses childhood comfort and sustenance, it gives us the very elements needed to survive.  But beyond that, our favorites and the risks we might take when trying new foods bring to light aspects of our personalities we might never know were there.

Have you ever had menudo?  For a lot of us "menudo" conjures up images of the teenybopper boy band of the eighties...five Latino adolescents with winged hair and fancy shirts that sold their brand of pop around the world.  But the REAL menudo...the classic Mexican tomato based soup of tripe, hominy and spices is one of my all time favorite soups.  Spicy, rich and complex, this dish defines a region of the world to me.  The chewy tripe, grainy hominy, and the classic accoutrements-cilantro, white onion, sometimes the bite and sharp heat of jalepenos.  I love the salty broth, the tender hominy.  

It would seem like an odd choice for an Americanized Asian woman.  But living in Fresno, one does not want for great Mexican food.  

And this brings another memory to mind.  One of tasting a spicy sauce so full of complex flavor that I couldn't get enough.  I was teaching in Madera Unified School District at a little school called Ripperdan.  The student population was predominantly Hispanic, and a majority of those were second language learners.  There were also several Hispanic teachers and aides who worked at the school, some for decades.  It was in this environment that I got my first taste of chicharrones, or fried pork skins, simmered in a dark red sauce.  I believe it was meant to be an accompaniment or a filling for a burrito but I found it to be so tasty I ate mostly chicharrones for the entire meal.

It's memories like these that make us who we are as humans who buy, create, cook and consume food.  Our favorite meals usually consist of great food and people, laughter and sometimes, tears.  Breakfasts of pancakes and sausage in the late morning light of a Saturday.  Eating turkey and stuffing off of fine china in a formal dining room or from a reinforced paper plate teetering on a lap.  Backyard bar-b-ques with sizzling German sausage and burgers mixed well with Lipton soup mix.  Rice porridge soup with soy sauce, white pepper and raw fish to be mixed into the steaming hot liquid.  The fish cooks as it sits in the soup and adds a delicate flavor.  Scrumptious.

So what's your favorite food, and what's the weirdest thing you've ever eaten?  I can claim chicken feet, black fungus, and jellyfish as some stand outs.  And I've never even traveled off the continent, unless you count Hawaii, where I've sampled fish jerky and seaweed, shaved ice with red beans, poke and puu puu.

Think about what you eat, what you've eaten, and what you hope to eat next.  Be adventurous.  Try something you thought you never would, then see if it becomes a fixture in your life.  See if it makes a memory or becomes a family tradition.  See if it takes you somewhere you've never been and makes you constantly wanting to go back.

Ah, the memories.  Mmmm...the food.

Resolution

Hopefully posting the link on Facebook will encourage me to write more.  Once a day, once a week...I think the exercise will do me some good.  Of course, I'm only writing this now so I can have something posted for January.  I'm already one week behind!  But I am resolving to write once a week starting...NOW!