Thursday, February 10, 2011


Last summer, a Dusky Flycatcher went broody on my back deck-light. I watched, as eggs were laid, incubated, and hatched into successful fledglings. Being privy to the secretive world of The Nest, I stole glimpses of this nestled habitation, always mindful to never let my eyes over-stay their uninvited peek...lit though it might have been.

Three eggs incubated and were then introduced to the world on my doorstep. Each evening after work, I would convert one of my deck's adriondacks into a stepping stool, and check on progress in the "nursery." (This "nursery" is the only kind I have any interest in ever monitoring.) Cloistered out of predators' reach, my deck was a safe place, a sanctuary for birth, and growth, and stretching of fledgling wings.

Around this time, I was told by The Healer, that I should eat cooked things. I needed the pre-digestion, the stove-top acting as a mother bird's mouth, returning to me nutrients on a warmed
platter. To my raw-foodist-recovering brain, this idea was hard to swallow. Even, if easier to digest. I felt a strange kinship with these chicks and I imagined myself as an honorary sibling. I was entitled. They must accept me as a strange sister. Theywere on my porch, after all. And I felt better, less dis-eased, and less dis-placed from my own kind if I imagined myself as a baby bird. Night after night I sat on that deck alone, quietly gurgitating mushy morsels as my nest-mates gulped their own soft sustenance, brought by their mother who was skeptical of the strange sistersitting...watching -- but, she let me be, realizing that we were all feeding...sensing that I was hungry too.

I've been good. Note: "I've."

I've become accustomed to, even grown to like, my stove-mother's regurgitations. For months now, I have not eaten one single salad -- even restraining myself from sneaking raw end bits of carrots when chopping and throwing them into soups and stews, or into the oven to roast. I did this, I who lived (ok, barely lived...butstill...) on raw food.

I ate raw fish before raw vegetables again.

I boiled my cabbage down, steamed my kale, and sautéed my fennel and chard. It felt so wrong...

I was good until this past week. I could stand it no longer. I was sick and tired of cold cooked food eaten at my desk. Oh yes, there's a microwave (two, in fact) in the break room at work, but a crummier place you've never seen...I never, ever go in. It's dangerous. I see "CAUTION: DO NOT ENTER" tape yellowing the doors.

This past week, I lost it -- I stopped being "good," I perhaps uttered an expletive or two, and I made salad...

...defiantly, tossing things up a bit.

~ Butternut Squash, baby romaine lettuce, broccoli sprouts, apple cider vinegar & olive oil ~

You know? I bet my siblings have moved on to solids by now too...