This may be my favorite selfie ever. The joy of spit-filled cheeks – better than Botox! Not bad for bedhead, right?
I’m trying oil pulling. Oh, hello Internet bandwagon! Mind if I jump on? Yes, yes, clearly you’re very crowded what with EVERYONE talking about it this weekend but you know me, I’m always game for a good round of Spin-the-Wheel-of-Health-Fortune!
Oil pulling, for those of you not yet initiated to this weird right of health-blogger passage, is pretty simple: You put a teaspoon or two of oil (sesame, olive and coconut are all popular) in your mouth and swish it around. After 20 minutes or so, you spit it out and the oil takes all the toxins out of your body with it. Congrats, you have ostensibly cured yourself of every possible ailment known to mankind including but not limited to: plaque, gum disease, bad breath, cavities, AIDS, cancer, depression, liver failure, warts, acne, cracked heels and hepatitis.
(I swear I did not make that list up but if I sound a little tongue in cheek it’s because my tongue has been all over my cheeks all friggin’ weekend and, as you may have guessed, 20 minutes is kind of a long time to be a-swishing. Also, I’m grouchy because I have an insane headache. More on that in a minute.)
Unicorns obviously have very healthy gut bacteria.
Hospitals with their life, death, and strange-smell zeitgeist have been the setting for several major revelations in my life (not the least of which is that nutritionists consider Malt-o-Meal a “solid food” but Jell-O is a “liquid”) and this time it was no different. My 3rd son, just nine months old at the time, hung limply in my arms as nurses and doctors buzzed around us. There was no waiting for us in the the waiting room when I brought my baby in, nearly unconscious with a fever of 107. The triage nurse took one look at my son and half the night staff descended on us. Weirdly all I could think about was the beginning of that Nicholas Cage/Meg Ryan flick City of Angels where the least sexy angel ever, Seth (Cage), escorts a little girl in yellow footie pajamas to heaven after she dies of a fever. The opening sequence ends with the anguished wail of her mother. To this day I hate that movie. (Although Meg Ryan was adorable. I miss that Meg Ryan.)
“Mom?” My freshly bathed son snuggled into my lap as we read through his favorite book before bedtime.
“Yes, honey?” I answered, prepared for one of his silly existential questions he likes to pose right before lights out. (“If I had a googleplex of licorice would you make me share it with my brothers?”)
His big sweet brown eyes looked up at me through those long lashes he got from my husband. Laying one little hand on my cheek he asked, “Do baby cows taste as delicious as mommy cows?”
Cough, choke, splutter. My baby wants veal?!? All this time I thought he loved Brown Cow, Brown Cow because of the snuggly baby animals and the cute way I sing the text (I do a very fancy trill on the last “No kittens, no kittens, but many many friends!”) but apparently he was reading it as a cookbook. I panicked – you do realize there is a goose in that book, right? How am I supposed to explain Foie Gras to a 3-year-old?? But in the end, what could I say? The boy has always loved his meat. He once ate five bratwursts at friend’s birthday party; he called them “meat sticks” and carried one in each fist, alternating bites. That would be another thing he got from my husband – I was a vegetarian then.