It’s been a while since I’ve posted, and while I’m a little embarrassed by it, as this is a forum to express myself, I’ve also just been out of words. The past few months has been littered with exhausting work and play, developing projects, the creative process, a haunting election, and now the aftermath of said political hoo-haa. Of course, there are words, there are millions of them to be said and written and expressed, but I’m having difficulty putting them into sentences that reflect the times along with my broken little heart.
You know how hearing a certain song can transport you back in time? Instantly, you’re in the 7th grade, or on a family vacation, or having you’re first kiss all over again. We produce our own life’s soundtracks through our experiences.
(this is a marathon length post, so SPOILER)
It all started Alumni Weekend, last October 2015, 20 years after high school. I stayed with one of my oldest and dearest friends on Lookout Mountain, TN, where I was raised well, even after all the middle-of-the-night sneak outs and kissing boys, smoking cigarettes unwell. I drove into town from Atlanta with another high-school sister, my senior roommate, the only year I boarded away from home. When driving North to Chattanooga, you round a corner directly under Missionary Ridge and just beyond the bend, a great looming, vast city, bordered by mountains, hills, and ridges announces itself to you.
So you’re asking yourself, what the hell is a Whole30?
Can I actually complete a Whole30? Just lean protein, fish, veggies, fruit, nuts and seeds for a month? No booze, sugar, grains, dairy, or legumes… 30 days?
Yes, you can do it. I swear, you can. If I can do it… anyone can. And it will, in fact, change your life.
As Steph recounted recently, French & Farrar had a wonderful day in the kitchen with Ann Taylor Pittman, executive editor of Cooking Light Magazine a few weeks ago. She joined us at Steph’s house on a Sunday morning to cook a few recipes from her gorgeous and enlightening new cookbook, Everyday Whole Grains. We had a blast. With no pressure to feed a waiting party of people, the three of us were able to just casually cook, swap stories, and enjoy ourselves.
I moved to Los Angeles exactly four days after I graduated from college. The only reason I didn’t start my drive West the day after receiving my diplomas: graduation-party-drunken-barefoot-tennis-broken-foot happened. It was my left foot, and I drove an old-school stick shift Pathfinder at the time, like a good Southern gal. So, like any amazing mother would, mine flew to Dallas on a whim to drive my broken ass to L.A. Thank God, as that drive alone is brutal.