Outed

I cooked for my parents this weekend. Without breaking into a cold sweat. And I've outed myself: they now think that I can cook (eeek!). I did the Simon roast chicken (which I can now do with my eyes shut after a couple of glasses of red - well, I haven't tried that experiement yet but I'm willing to give it a go) with roasted onions, potatoes, garlic, red peppers and a thin gravy, followed by the Magimix apple crumble (translation: shove all the ingedients into the Magimax, hit the button, pour into dish, shove into oven, take out, gloat) with the custard recipe from my well-thumbed copy of the Good Housekeeping cookbook. And apart from cooking the custard a little too quickly (not watching it enough whilst chatting to my mother; possibly also affected by said couple of glasses of red by then), it seemed to be perfectly edible.

Okay, a little background here. My little sister is, as I've probably said before, a serious chef. A *really* serious chef. Gold medals at 18, world competition title by her mid-twenties, own gourmet restaurant before 30 - that sort of serious chef. And I by comparison - well, let's just say that I grew up burning things and making almost-inedible sauces with lumps in that looked like new life forms. My parents have been visiting a lot lately (few things to sort out down on the old farm etc), and every time they come I offer to cook and they do anything - anything, up to and including going out for a kebab - to avoid this. But yesterday they were so tired that I got away with it - and had the lovely warm feeling of producing a whole meal from start to finish including dessert in just over an hour. And having my mother go back for seconds (something she very rarely does) of *my* cooking. I'd consider being shocked if I wasn't too tired.

But a few details before I go. The crumble was great: a real light French apple crumble. This was partly because it was a French recipe book, but also because the apples were right. I had a bag of little red apples (I think from Tescos) that were floury and nasty to eat: I thought they'd cook well, and they did. I'll look for them again, next time I want to do a baked apple dish. It *is* possible to hurt yourself badly with a potato peeler (I did). Roasting peppers and garlic works really well if you put them into the roasting dish 30 minutes before the chicken's due out of the oven. And you can't hurry a good custard: if you set the temperature too high and whisk it too much, it will curdle (will taste fine but look horrid). Be gentle, be patient and it will, as most things treated gently in the kitchen, come right.

Pigeon, mmmmm Pigeon

First an aside: I've been told to drink more. Now anyone reading posts about me cooking with wine will find that a little surprising, but what I've been told to drink more of is water. So from now on you can call me 'camel girl'. Oh, and if you see me, please remind me to drink more.

Yesterday was a lovely day for a foodie, made even better because there were two of us out and about enjoying an accidentally fruitful shopping trip and a glorious autumn day. I bought Hwsgo a lovely bottle of wine (De Bortoli Yarra Valley reserve Chardonnary 2003?) to celebrate something a while ago; unfortunately it appears to have been one of the last bottles stocked by Oddbins, but fortunately after a little Internet searching we found a place near Eastbourne with some in stock. So off we drove to Hailsham Cellars, and a lovely journey it was, taking in some game shopping, a pub lunch, two cycle rides, a car museum, miniature train ride and a very serious game of crazy golf. And when we got to Hailsham Cellars, Hwsgo not only found exactly what he wanted, but he also made a new friend - the wonderfully friendly shop-owner - and found lots of lovely grape juice to drool over too. Heartily recommended, and a lovely place to sit and watch Hwsgo happily explore.

And the game shopping. We were having a moochy, lets-see-what-comes-up-and-do-what-we-feel-like day. And amongst other things, what came up was a sign for "Over ready game". So we followed the signs over a couple of country miles (like normal miles, but longer) and found South Brockwell Farm Shop. In Simon terms, it was like Christmas coming early: lots of the things that I haven't been able to find, even in the great game butchers near home. So we bought two fat pigeons, two - erm small birds that I'll have to ask Hwsgo about - and a nice plump piece of rabbit. And today we had the Roast Pigeon with Braised Lettuce, Peas and Bacon (page 155), with the pigeon that it was intended for (instead of the partridge that I used on the 9th January). Hwsgo cooked it whilst I was in the gym. The veg were as yummy as I remembered, and the pigeon was wonderfully richly liver textured and tasting. I think we may be going back there again soon too (probably on the way to the wine shop).

Another weekend

Friday, we cycled. Or at least attempted to cycle up a bloody big hill. And I mean a big hill. The sort of hill that, if it wasn't hidden by trees and meanders in the road up it, would be screaming "don't even attempt this" before we started. But we got up it. Not necessarily on top of the bikes all the way, but we did get up it with a modicum of dignity. We were both tired, both had had a long week, so we shortened the ride down and tried again the day after. Up the bloody big hill again, and on through some very pretty hillside lanes (yes, even Surrey has pretty bits, and boy were they crowded with blokes in lycra) to a lovely pub lunch at the Scarlett Arms in Walliswood, then on across the heaths and home. Not always a happy ride, but certainly a lovely one.
And on Sunday I ran. My first 10k for erm possibly years, and one performed entirely on a treadmill in the gym (as one of the 1000000 runners in the Human Race). It hurt, it really hurt, but I came in at 1hr 10mins in the end: not bad for an unfit old type. The Human Race gave me a distance counter for my runs, with a neat little dongle that downloads all my pavement-pounding onto an online log. It's an advert for Nike, but quite a useful one for the simple fee of staggering around for an hour (my previous running bribes have included beer, cider, t-shirts and medals). The only problem is the pledge section: I couldn't enter a running goal on the site without putting in a corresponding pledge for what I would do if I failed to meet that goal. So, if you see someone running a 10k after christmas and dressed as a giant rubber duck, it may just be me (but only if I can't run and log a 10k of less than 55 minutes).

On the food front, the Simons continue. No new ones this time, but I can now cook both the roast chicken (having memorised the oven temperatures: 240 and 190) and sauce bernaise recipes from memory. This is a good thing: if I can remember enough recipes, then I can compile a menu from what's available in the shops (without taking the book) rather than what's written on my shopping list. Which given there are beasties like guinea fowl in the freezer, has got to be a very good thing indeed.

A long slow descent and a Simon (Spinach Dumplings, p200)

An active bank holiday this. But first, the news from the scales... 6 days as follows: 177, 177, 176, 176, 175, 175. Yes, really. It would be nice if this series could continue... And exercise: two bike rides (33 miles and 34 miles, rides 4 and 2 from the OS book for Sussex etc). One fitness test: 14.33 for 1.5 miles, 28 press-ups, 30 sit-ups and a faintly pathetic number of floor pull-ups (with a retest every month from now) and a bootcamp circuit (just getting the hang of medicineball press-ups, but only just: my arms gave out on them tonight, as did S's). And a lovely little (4-6 miles?) walk in the country. Hwsgo, despite my worries about his fitness for the bike rides, surprised me enormously by not only being fit but also dashing away from me most of the way round. Although we were both terrible hill-crawlers on the first ride, by the second ride we were improving, and Hwsgo at least seems to have his grimp sorted now. I've now threatened to go to spinning classes (static bikes) until I can catch him on a hill again. Erm, I mean at all.

Foodwise, there has been a Simon, but no picture (too tired to face either the stairs or the hunt for the digital camera). Spinach Dumplings: a mix of blanched spinach and cheese, pepped up with nutmeg and pepper then cooled, formed into balls and boiled in a pan. Hwsgo loved them, but I don't think I'd actively try to cook them again, especially if the choice was between them and Parmesan Fritters. Worth noting though is the optimal ball size: inch-wide balls cooked a little too fast leaving quite dry balls; 2.5 inches was too big, with not-quite-cooked middles; 1.5 inch balls were just right, crisp without being dry and cooked through with a good crunchy shell. Oh, and coating the balls in lots and lots of flour helped a lot too.

A cheesecake also happened. And has been left behind by Hwsgo in an attempt to even up our weight loss distribution. I'd say that I could resist, but I can't. Never have been able to resist a good home-cooked carrot cake, and am not about to start resisting now. The good side is that the cake won't last much longer. The bad side is that I will have single-forkedly eaten it.

Onwards...

Dismay

This is so unfair. I haven't eaten chips, pies, chocolate or ice-cream, I've been to the gym, I've eaten sensibly (and believe me, plain flavoured healthy crisps are so sensible they're calorifically in dark brown lace-ups), and yet I've still put on weight. 176.8 yesterday, 177.4 today. Ah well, I'm sure it's one of those glitch things.

The good news balancing this unexpected attack of the sugar-plum elephants is that I fitted into some more of my old clothes. I have a pile in the bottom of my wardrobe, of things that I like but can't fit into. Or rather, that I liked: several items have been consigned to the Oxfam pile as soon as I can see how wrong they look. But my work shirts are good though: I bought these exactly a year ago in Edinburgh, was a bit too big for them when I got them home (they're an old-fashioned size 14, i.e. somewhat smaller than the 14s of today), but today they worked, give or take a little bust button strain. So something must be going right.

And meanwhile, today's the day when the serious exercise starts: S and I have our first session with Nick the personal trainer tonight. I may have problems walking tomorrow...

Training dip

S and I are both in quite an interesting training dip. Over a week of going to gym and getting on with it, only getting tired during the exercise itself, and we finally got round to being tired before the exercise started. We'd both pulled long days at work yesterday, but it seemed a bit more than that (at least to me). Many years ago I worked with someone who put themselves through Canadian forces training whenever they needed to get fit quickly. Apparently they started out okay, felt like hell for the first fortnight then were okay. And in a smaller way, I think this may be happening to us (the feeling like hell bit before we're okay). It's almost a fortnight since we started, and this is usually the point at which I start to give up on the new routine. I'd always put this down to some sort of mental resistance: the point beyond which it became difficult to sustain enthusiasm, but maybe it has a simpler root. Right now we're both a bit tired, so we did a simple set, and I'm currently vegging out on the sofa, but tomorrow it starts again. Big time: we're booked into a boot camp session with an ex-marine PTI. I think I may write the number of a local taxi firm on my arm before we go, just in case we need help getting home.

Oh, and the food slipped a bit. A late night, being a bit tired: I've seen a little too much of the "Snack Time" machine in the last 24 hours. And I went to the supermarket to stock up on veg and found myself almost desperate for chocolate, sugar and white bread. But I resisted and headed the urge off with sweetcorn cobs and multipacks of low-fat crisps. So. Back on the wagon and another evening without carbohydrates or sugar, and yogurt and fruit for dessert. It's worth it, just to see the scales going down every day. Or at least, possibly more realistically, not going up.

The fat lady gyms

Since my holiday (just over a week ago now) in summary: weights look something like this: 179.8, 180.0, 179.2, 178.6, 177.0, 176.4. Training looks something like this: powerplate almost every day, with 10 minutes of 10-minute miles on the treadmill, interspersed with walking or cycling every other day. Food: breakfast special k, lunchtime sandwiches, evening meat and veg, with packs of low-calorie crisps inbetween; not a single chocolate bar or sugary snack (although I do have to declare one scottish sweet). Health: fairly stable, one mild food reaction (100mph brain again) and the odd sniffle, with the powerplate situps doing an excellent job of keeping my bronchi clear (very similar effect to the percussion my parents used to keep my chest clear as a child) inbetween.

And that sorted, on to today's post. Gym etiquette with large ladies. S and I were on the powerplates last night (I think we may be becoming a feature on them...) when a rather large lady was led by a personal trainer onto a neighbouring machine. And while she was fighting some sit-ups, she glanced over and gave me that look. If you've got fit and hung around gyms for long enough, you know that look: a swirl of defiance and uncertainty, a subconscious division of the gym into me over here and you over there. If you've also got unfit and restarted training at gyms enough times, you also know that feeling: you've paid your money, you've bought your kit, you've walked through the doors, but somehow that extra layer of fat removes any sense of belonging in or to said gym, often to the point where it's easier to give up going rather than wait for the toned bodies to finish with the machines that you need. It's a sad fact that most people's mental image of female gym attenders is that they are all fit, thin, toned and that somehow they've always been that way and just need to go to the gym to top off their natural healthiness (I'll skip the other image of musclebound hulks for now). It’s up there with ‘thin people have always been thin’ and its dispiriting caveat ‘so I can’t even hope to join them’. And in that moment, with that stare, I realised that I didn’t know how to start to break down the divide. I thought about walking past and whispering “I was a size 18 two months ago” into her ear, but that seems patronising. I racked my brain for anything positive that I could do to help break the going-to-the-gym barrier down from fighting ones own body and attitude at the same time, to just fighting the fat, but there was nothing I could say or do at the time. So I just smiled and got back on with my own torture. I guess this is partly my own social inadequacy, partly my deepset belief that difficult things can become easier (not easy, note, but easier) if they’re done within a community, partly a comment on the powers of perception over reality, especially in matters social, but that moment did make me think for a while. And writing about it has helped: next time I see someone fighting themself and looking uncomfortable in the gym, I’ll smile and say ‘Hi’ before I get on with addressing my current inability to do a full wide-arm pressup properly. It takes a great deal of courage and determination for a fat person to walk into the gym: the very least that everyone else can do is acknowledge them as one of our own.