Diet, Dessert and Dogs

Sometimes I wish I’d lived in the 1600s.  No, not for the lack of modern excesses like cell phones or Doritos or Survivor. Not for what was, in those days, the nonchalant expectation of personal chefs, cleaners, and maids (and all for no pay!). Not for the lack of indoor plumbing, heating, electricity or even daily bathing  (as I recently learned from the way-cool book I’m reading, The Dirt on Clean). Not even because back then, people already had dogs as pets, though of course they weren’t treated as well as our canine friends are today. (”Yes, Mum, you do treat us very well.  This is a nice story, yadda yadda yadda, but when are you going to get to the part about food?”)

Allow me to clarify: when I say I would have liked living back then, I’m talking about cultural attitudes towards female pulchritude.  If today’s society held the same culturally-influenced ideals as to what is considered “beautiful” as they did in the 1600s, I’d be one fine-lookin’ piece of chattel. (Well, for the first 15 or so years of my life, anyway, after which I’d be forcibly betrothed to an old coot and made to bear six or eight children before shrivelling up like a dried dishrag and croaking from some 17th-Century pestilence).

Yes, I’ve always believed that, if only the zaftig female bodytype were still in style today, I’d have it made.  No more dieting! No more worrying about the little number printed on that tag sewn in the seam of my shirts! No more debating whether to get the elastic waist or the buttons! After all, those groups of 1600’s Rubenesque damsels in all those famous paintings could certainly have stood to get to the gym a little more often, and yet they were considered the paragon of beauty, right? 

However, since I live in the 21st century, I’m less inclined to flaunt my excess poundage.  With my recently-renewed vow to eat healthfully and also openly embrace the “now,” I’ve decided I may as well make peace with my plumpness, if not celebrate it.  Pondering all things Rubenesque, my mind naturally meandered toward the the concept of Reuben sandwiches.  Not only are they, too, pleasingly plump, but eating them may just ensure that I stay that way, as well (Bonus!).

 In my long-ago meat-eating days (though not as long-ago as the 1600s, mind you), I used to relish Reubens (the sandwiches, not the painter–though I suppose I’d have to concede that his work is okay).

There’s just something tantalizing about the mix of all those towering slices of pink, pickled meat, their softly shredded edges peeking out from beneath a buttered, crisply toasted piece of rye; the sour, briny haystack of sauerkraut, all smothered in creamy, sweet and tangy dressing (your choice of either Russian or Thousand Island), then capped off with a languid, softly spreading cloud of melted swiss cheese–well, the synergy of that particular combination of elements has always made my mouth water. 

I’ve encountered many recipes for vegan Reubens over the years, but nothing seemed to tickle my fancy (and my fancy is usually pretty ticklish, I can tell you*).  Then, the other evening, I finally decided to finish unpacking those fourteen boxes of cookbooks that have been waiting, patiently, in our basement since our recent move (who am I kidding?  November 12th is no longer “recent,” by any stretch of the imagination!). In the process, I happened upon my copy of Vegan with a Vengeance, and found–ta da!–a fabulous recipe for a vegan Tempeh Reuben Sandwich.

Well, since I am no longer fond of meat in any case, and since I have also determined to live in the moment, I decided, tempeh fugit! and went about preparing that sandwich. (Oooh.  I can hear the groans through the computer screen. Sorry, I couldn’t help myself).

With my mouth already watering in anticipation, I assembled the sandwich even though we were short a few key ingredients.  I was too impatient to properly marinate my tempeh,  so just steamed it in a little Braggs and water, as I normally do (which accounts for its pale countenance in the photos–sort of like a 17th Century Courtesan, come to think of it).  However, I did do up the rest of the recipe pretty much as described, except using a spelt bagel for the rye bread in the original.

The result was spectacular.  That Isa sure can whip up some great recipes! I devoured the thing in minutes, smacking my lips and licking my fingers as I imagine the denizens of King Charles’s court might have done as they sat round their enormous oak tables, imbibing and feasting. 

Not only are these sandwiches delectable, they are so chock full of filling that I daresay they themselves appear rather amply endowed. Like sandwich, like maker; eating that Reuben really did make me feel as if I inhabited a scene from a Rubens after all. Now, if only I could get that “servants at my beck and call” thing happening.

Tempeh Reuben Sandwich (adapted from Vegan with a Vengeance)

Rather than reprint the recipe here, I’ll tell you what I did differently from the original:

• 1 spelt bagel, cut in half and toasted instead of pumpernickel bread
• instead of marinating the tempeh (which I would definitely do next time), I steamed it in about 1/4 cup water and 2 Tbsp. Braggs, then brushed with olive oil and browned lightly in a skillet
• I omitted the avocado from the sandwich, because (a) I didn’t think it would work as a substitute for cheese, and (b) we didn’t have any.

*No, I wasn’t being suggestive, just silly.  Goodness me, you people have a depraved sense of humor! 

This morning, as I slipped out of the shower and dashed toward my towel, I was arrested by the flashing image of some alien being–large, bulbous torso with spindly appendages,  squishy and amorphous, with a dimpled, pasty-grey hide–as my gaze flitted briefly across the mirrored door of the medicine cabinet.  Extraterrestrial close encounters in my bathroom? Ultra-magnified image of a cotton ball and stray eyelashes? Cate Blanchett in her newest role, as Truman Capote? 

Uh, no, to all of the above, sad to say. With a start, I realized that mysterious reflection was me.

My HH finally put up the medicine cabinet a few days ago, so I wasn’t yet used to having a mirror in just that location, and forgot to avert my eyes as my naked self passed by.  Now, with two mirrors basically facing each other in the bathroom, just as they tend to do in women’s dressing rooms, I am treated to the full 3-D, 360 degrees, visual equivalent of surround-sound, image of myself every time I exit from the shower.  Bummer.  BIG bummer, if you get my drift.

Why is it I’ve come to avoid looking at myself in the mirror, you may wonder?  As a child, I never really thought about my looks very much.  These days, I can barely stand to gaze at my own reflection, and most especially not naked.  For many women, this is the last frontier of self-esteem:  being able to take in our own naked reflections without censure, or nausea.

I know that my body is not where I’d like it to be, and what’s worse, I know it has been in a much better place in the past.  As much as I consciously tout–and believe in–self-acceptance and self-love, it never occurred to me that I’m sabotaging myself by avoiding my mirror image just because I don’t like what I see.  What I end up doing each time I refuse to look is nurture that kernel of low self-esteem.

As it happens, The CFO is coming to visit this weekend (a deferred trip, after the last one was cancelled due to a snow storm).  Like my mother, my older sister, and me, The CFO has struggled with her weight most of her adult life.  And when I think of her and how I feel about her, it would seem ludicrous to me to reject her based on weight gain, of course.  So, if I’m infinitely capable of lavishing unconditional love on my friends and family regarless of physical appearance, it begs the question: why can’t I do so with myself as well?  

I believe in self-acceptance, and I’ve written about this before.  And I’m repeatedly inspired by other bloggers who’ve managed to incorporate self-love into their diet routines.   But I tend to separate acceptance from approval in my assessment, sort of like the mother of a toddler who tells her naughty child, “I still love YOU, but I am very angry at what you did.”  And let me tell you, what my fat cells are doing these days really sucks.

But I’m working on it.  There’s a great scene in the otherwise nondescript movie, Safe, one of Julianne Moore’s early films (1995).  Suffering from multiple allergies to basically everything (what was once called “20th Century Disease“), Moore’s character withdraws from the “real” world to an alternative-medicine retreat where she can be sheltered from the onslaught of all civilization’s many toxins and environmental villains.  Part of her cure involves practising self-love; her therapists believe that the root of her problems stems from her inability to really love herself, unconditionally. 

The movie ends with a tone that is both somewhat mocking (of all things alternative) and also portentous: Moore stands facing herself in the mirror and repeatedly chokes on the words, “I love you,” as she stares into the reflection of her own eyes.  But watching the scene, you just know that her salvation lies in that little phrase, in truly believing it.

I think this coming weekend is the perfect place to embark on a new approach to achieving such a salvation: I’m going to throw a superabundance of affection toward the CFO over the next two days, and attempt to do the same with myself, especially next time I pass by the mirror.  There may not be any skinny dipping in my foreseeable future, but perhaps I’ll eventually step out of the shower without shielding my eyes. 

 Have a great weekend, all.