Cooking With Anna J #2

 

I’m not in the best of moods today, nor was I yesterday. After making the grand declaration about a month ago that ‘I was never EVEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEER dieting again’,   I decided to step on the scales to see if there was any damage. I already knew things were a bit off. Once the initial excitement of being able to eat whatever the hell I wanted for the first time in 40+ years, life then quickly disintegrated into

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I could feel myself getting heavier. Energy levels dropping. Mobility dropping. My face started to feel puffier and just kind of

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I’ve had to admit defeat and get back with the programme. Being the Princess-Fad that I am, I’ll be lucky if I make it past the weekend. I’ve got the sticking power of sellotape that’s been left in a moist and dusty atmosphere. I know there are some incredible women out there, breaking down barriers and squishing fat-shamers; I take my hat off to them. I support their cause and mission whole-heartedly. But for me, being this over weight is just horrid. I hate it. I don’t fit my skin … or rather my skin doesn’t fit  me. I don’t recognise the person I see in the mirror, so, here we go again.

I’ve jumped back on the Ketogenic waggon. Having tried everything else in my many years, it is the only thing that has any impact on me. And the only one that doesn’t leave me ready to eat my own arm although that adaption period can be somewhat ‘testing’.

Yesterday was actually fine. I expected the worst ( ravenously hungry as my brain started screaming out for glucose) but it was fine. I planned my meals,drank freakin’ gallons of water and got through the day without too much drama. Today I’m hoping  for the same. I’ve currently got some cauliflower cheese crusts in the oven. No clue how well they are going to turn out. I did my usual trick – looked at the instructions then ignored the instructions. If anyone wants a go:-

 

  1. Take one head of cauliflower. Grate or chop super fine in a food processor.
  2. First, create dish with raw cauliflower.
  3. Go back and read instructions, realise it should have been cooked. Microwave if you have a microwave, if not put into boiling water and murder it until it reaches a consistency of ‘meh, that should do’.
  4. Totally ignore instructions about squeezing out as much moisture as possible from the cooked cauli and plough on ahead.
  5. Place cauli mush in a bowl and add a cup or two of mozzarella cheese ( grated, obviously!).
  6. Add one egg.
  7. Mix
  8. Attempt to scoop up liquidy mess whilst swearing profusely and wondering what the hell you did wrong.
  9. Read instructions again and go back to #4. Repeat entire process again. This time squeezing.
  10. Preheat oven to  ‘hot as hell’ because you don’t have enough patience to cook it properly. Check intermittently ( as and when you remember basically) and turn down once the edges resemble charcoal.
  11. Pray
  12. Wander off and start blogging on the internet. Forget everything you’ve been doing.
  13. Suddenly wonder what on earth that burning smell is, and run screeching to the oven. Whip out Cheesy Cauli Crusts, preferably using the end of  the oven glove that does not have the gaping big hole in it.
  14. Remove from the non-stick pan ( oh how I am  laughing … and they are still stuck in the none stick pan).

Et voila.

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Yeah, I know ….

And here is what they should have looked like.

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Photo credits to The Iron You, where you can go and learn how to do them properly!

I’m going off to eat my burnt  cheesey lumps now.

Have a great one.

Anna J xXx

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Do Yoga. Breathe Deep. Just Not Too Deep.

AnnieYogaLine

(Artwork provided by, and copyrighted to Patrick Barrett www.patrickbarrettart.com Instagram: patrick_barrett_art. No reproduction without written permission from the artist.)

 

One of my best friends recently discovered the joys of yoga. “I feel all floppy,” she said. “I feel as though I want to hug everyone.” Thankfully she didn’t. I don’t cope well with hugging at the best of times, and less so when they are being dished out by the newest member of the Happy Clappy Brigade. But it took me back to the time I attempted to ‘find myself’ through the power of Yoga.

I was twenty-six. Working, travelling, socialising. Life was fabulous. Sleep got sacrificed. Eight hours a night reduced to seven, six, then five. It took its toll. It was with grey skin and baggy eyes that I fell through the door of the class, dragging my house-mate behind me. Clutching our newly purchased mats under our arms, and wearing our newly purchased co-ordinated outfits, we confidently strode in. We were delighted when were greeted by what could only be described as Gaia, in human form. She had long flowing hair, skin like a baby, eyes that twinkled with an all knowing wisdom, henna tattoos across her feet and jingly jewellery around her ankle. Her voice was hypnotic. Melodic. We felt as though we’d been blessed by the time she pointed us to a spot in the center before gliding away to meet others.

We flipped out the blue rolls like pro’s, lay down and gazed skyward. We listened to the dulcet tones of our leader as she began a guided relaxation to ease us all into the right state of mind.

And it worked.

I was utterly at one with the universe when I came to and opened my eyes, and had a casual stretch. I was oblivious to all as I wandered back over the lovely dream I’d just had. I had another stretch. I glanced over and sniggered at my snoring housemate. I stretched again, this time, with my eyes focusing, and rolled over … and this was when I:

  1. Remembered where the hell I was
  2. Noticed that the rest of the class was in, what was obviously the middle of a sequence and
  3. Looked at my watch and discovered thirty minutes had vanished.

 

I whispered to H out the corner of my mouth in the hope that no one would hear me. No one did hear me, including H. I whispered louder (shouted!). Spluttering, she rejoined me in the land of the living. With overly exaggerated nonchalance, we climbed to our feet, wiped the bogies from our eyes and dribble off our chins and proceeded to swing into The Mountain Position. Breathing in this new air of wonder. Firm in our heady belief that life would never be the same again; that our stresses would be a thing of the past. Yoga was to be our new path and our bodies, our temples. There was joy in my heart as I swooped over into The Triangle. So engulfed in my new angelic hedonism, I was unsure if the fart I’d heard, let out by Head-Band-Man (in front of me who was also triangling inches from my face), was actually a fart. I looked around. As had happened with me and H earlier, no-one reacted.

I returned to my zen zone.

Commanded by Gaia as she swished her tie-dye skirt at the front of the room, we all got into The Downward Dog. This time, there was no mistaking what some in that collective may have referred to as a ‘spiritual release’ as he directed his bottom towards the stars. And from then on, with each and every move, the same thing happened.

No one had warned us that that could be a side effect of this great exercise as it works the inside of the body as well as the out.

I swear to god I still have the scars on the inside of my mouth. I almost bit through in a bid to control my laughter and I was doing well(ish) until I swivelled towards H and found her, bent double, upside down, with silent tears of laughter dripping off her cheeks onto the floor, unable to lift herself up into the next position for fear of what would happen.

We made a mutual decision right there and then; that Yoga wasn’t for us and made an apologetic exit. Apparently, they could still hear us laughing from beyond the car park.

Needless to say, we weren’t asked back. And we didn’t ask if we could. The blue mats stayed in the cupboard until we had the next party and ran out of seating in the garden. So not a complete waste.

 

I recently decided to have another crack at the whip. It was a twenty-minute session that mostly consisted of The Warrior … which is ‘standing’. Essentially.

I was knackered.

 

Sometimes you just have to know when to quit.