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Recently, because of a particularly bad flare-up of my hyperthyroidism, I’ve had to make some changes in the way I eat. For me, this meant completely cutting out all wheat and iodized salt (no more eating out or “cheating” for me!). Due to the awful combination of hyperthyroidism and hypoglycemia, I’ve also started adding coconut everywhere I can in my diet. I use coconut flakes as a snack and in my morning yogurt and use coconut oil and milk just about wherever I can in replace of other fats and such. Thankfully, being mostly dairy-free, I already use a number of coconut products in my cooking, so the adjustment wasn’t too difficult.

Today, I was bored of the few breakfast foods I’ve been cycling through and wanted to try something new. It turned out far better than I expected, so I decided to share my good fortune with all of you here. Whether you have hyperthyroidism or hypoglycemia or just want to try something new, this breakfast is nutrient-packed to help your blood sugar and metabolism. Plus, it’s super tasty!

You will need:

1 cup unsweetened coconut milk beverage

1/2 cup rolled oats (gluten free if necessary)

2 tbsp Qi’a superfood cereal (I used the cranberry vanilla flavor)

1/2 tbsp coconut oil (approx.)

1/2 tbsp raw honey (approx.)

Finely shredded coconut flakes (as desired)

Directions:

1. Heat the coconut milk and coconut oil in a small saucepan on the stove.

2. Add the oats and Qi’a cereal, stirring frequently until the mixture begins to become more solid (like regular oatmeal).

3. Add the raw honey, stir well.

4. Remove from heat and serve, adding coconut flakes as desired and mixing well.

5. For added antioxidants/taste factor, enjoy with a glass of green tea.

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You will need:

4 eggs

2 tbsp stevia powder (or 12 packets)

1 1/2 tsp vanilla extract

1/4 tsp salt

3 cups whole milk (or milk alternative)

ground nutmeg

ground cinnamon

Directions:

1. Preheat the oven to 350 degrees.

2. Grease six ramekins (or one bread pan if you don’t have ramekins) and place them in a large baking pan.

3. Heat the milk in a medium saucepan over the stove, stirring frequently to prevent sticking.

4. In a medium bowl, mix the eggs, vanilla extract, stevia and salt.

5. Add the heated milk and stir until well mixed.

6. Pour the mixture into the ramekins. Sprinkle with nutmeg, cinnamon, and a small bit of extra stevia, as desired.

7. Pour hot water into the pan within 1/2 inch of top of cups and place the pan in the oven.

8. Bake until knife inserted near the center comes out clean, about 25 to 30 minutes (45 to 50 min for custard baked in a bread pan). Remove the ramekins from hot water and cool on wire rack for 10 minutes.

9. Refrigerate until thoroughly chilled, then serve and enjoy.

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On a recent visit home, I was cleaning up around the house and stumbled on a pile of apples. They were past their prime but still good, and I wanted to come up with some creative way to use them that wasn’t applesauce, as we already had a jar of mostly untouched applesauce in the fridge. My solution? Apple butter. It’s surprisingly easy, though also a bit time consuming. Next time, I think I’ll look up a crock pot recipe.

I loosely followed this recipe here. My main problem, aside from having a general aversion to recipes/measurements, was that this particular recipe called for four pounds of apples. I had about five smallish apples and a jar of applesauce, which I threw in after pureeing the apples so I could have more apple butter. So here is my loose adaptation. I was happy with it, and I hope you will be too if you feel like making a smaller batch to enjoy alone or with a friend.

Don’t hate me for the lack of precise measurements.

You will need:

Apples

Apple cider vinegar

Water

Sugar

Salt

Cinnamon

Ground cloves

Allspice

Lemon juice

Directions:

1. Cut the apples into quarters. I removed the seeds and any nasty spots, but it’s best to leave the core and peel on.

2. Place the apples in a medium to large pot and add enough water that the apples are well-covered (they’ll float, don’t worry about that). Your water/apple cider ratio should be 2:1. For instance, if you use 2 cups of water to cover the apples, add 1 cup of apple cider vinegar. If you use 1 cup of water, use 1/2 cup of apple cider vinegar. Etc.

3. In the covered pot, bring the liquid to a boil, then reduce the heat and simmer for 20 minutes or until apples are soft. Remove from heat.

4. Using a pestle, mash the apples through the strainer into a medium to large bowl. Remove the skins from the strainer as necessary so the pulp can go through the strainer and into the bowl. (Note: The recipe above calls for a foodmill or chinois sieve. I had neither, so I used a regular mesh strainer. It worked fine, but I have a feeling the suggested pieces of equipment would be easier.)

5. Add your sugar. This is where I had a vast difference of opinion with the recipe above, which calls for 1/2 cup of sugar for each cup of apple puree. I had about 3-4 cups of puree, and I used about 1/2 cup of sugar. So, add however much you find necessary based on your individual preferences or the sweetness of the apples you used. Mix until the sugar is thoroughly dissolved.

6. Add your spices to taste. I used approximately 1/2 tsp each of ground cloves and allspice and 2-2 1/2 tsp cinnamon. When in doubt, start small, taste, and work your way up. Mix. Add your lemon (I used about 1/4 cup, again follow your preferences).

7. Cook uncovered in a large/wide pot on medium-low heat, stirring constantly. It took my mixture about 1 1/2 hours to reach the right consistency and color: thick, smooth, and medium-dark brown-red.

8. If you plan to can your apple butter, follow the instructions on the recipe posted above. I put mine in a tupperware, as I knew it wouldn’t last too long.

Enjoy!

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Today, I visited his grave for the first time in a long, long time.

It looks exactly the same. Old, neglected, surrounded by mostly-brown grass and a patch of dirt in which a whole hoard of insects have found their playground. And underneath that worn bit of sone, I know there is nothing left worth returning to.

I used to sit and talk to him, share with him the milestones in my life. I shouldn’t have been alive, and I knew that he, of all people, would understand that. At the same time, I didn’t really believe that he was listening. It just felt good to talk, for once, to be honest without fearing judgement.

This time, I didn’t talk to him. I had no need to. Instead, I poured out questions I’m sure I’ve spoken before to the only One who has been there to hear all of these conversations. I asked God why He kept me from death time and again, against all odds, but He let my friend die. Eight years later, it still feels like a sick exchange of fate, and I’m angry for it. I wish that wasn’t true, but it is.

And I wish I could say that a loud, booming voice sounded from Heaven and gave me the answers I’ve been longing for. I wish I could say I suddenly learned every detail of the life that was lost far too soon, that the puzzle was miraculously complete. But none of this happened.

What did happen was this: My Daddy, in His infinite compassion, placed a whisper in my heart, reminding me, “For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord” and “The heart of man plans his way, but the Lord establishes his steps.”

I have to accept that there are things in this life that I will never understand. And though I often fail, I’m learning more every day what it means to trust in the One who has all the answers.

It feels like diving off a cliff, blindfolded, and trusting that there is water below to catch me.

Life and Algebra

“This is just a bit of silliness, really.”

When did I get to be so selfish,

chasing after knights and

preoccupied with thoughts of things

that probably don’t matter at all?

 

I had such good focus for a while,

but it’s hard to miss someone

and keep going as if you are untouchable.

I’m a human being too.

 

And I can’t help but think 

that things will be better if I keep quiet,

but my heart is begging me to ask

if the future is really for certain.

 

I mean, how can anyone really know?

So many variables,

a multitude of possible outcomes.

It’s hard to know which one is right. 

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She’s seventeen years old,

and she wants to be just like me.

She tucks her laces

into the sides of her shoes,

“Look, just like you!”

 

She holds tight to my hand,

studies the criss-crossed denim of her jeans.

“I’m going to go to Moody,” she says,

and the pride of it makes me smile.

I’m always smiling.

 

But, “Babygirl,” I want to tell her,

“You’ll never be like me.

And that’s okay. There’s more to you

than you care to see.

Embrace it.”

 

And I can’t bear to think of anyone

touching this child,

hurting her more deeply

than any of us can understand.

I want to ask how it feels.

 

But I don’t.

Instead, I squeeze her hand

and kiss her head,

hug her hard

and pray that tomorrow is a better day.

 

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A finely sculpted middle finger sits proudly on the sill

of my next-door neighbor’s window.

Perched beside a neatly hung flag, it proclaims:

“Eff you, world, my country’s better.”

 

And I have to wonder, although possibly in vain, whether

that person has stopped to think

about the other 195 countries

that just might feel the same is true of them.

 

What determines “better,” anyway?

More guns, less guns, more laws, less laws?

A sense of community

or the promotion of individuality?

 

Why can’t we just be different instead of better?

Do we really think so highly of ourselves

that we claim to have things all figured out?

Man, I can’t even run my own life.

 

I have to confess that I get tired of the egotism,

of that in-your-face, I’m-the-best mentality

that we all sport

whether we’d like to admit it or not.

 

I get tired of the conceit in my own heart

that balks at correction, screaming,

“I know the best way!”

Don’t you try to tell me otherwise.

 

We’ve all got that green-eyed, attention-seeking monster

inside of us, seeking to claw its way out.

Are we really going to give in to it,

or are we ready to consider surrender?

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If I had my way, I’d have a porch.

That way, when my neighbours passed by

I’d be able to smile and wave

instead of being closed inside these four walls.

 

Better yet, I’ll build a treehouse

and rock my music from the branches.

We’ll have jam sessions all night

and talk about Truth ’til our eyes grow heavy.

 

Man, this is the life.

I’ve never been so blessed as now,

sisters at home and brothers down the street,

learning the meaning of community.

 

We all think of family as that thing

we were deprived of in childhood.

What would it mean to count the family we have

and rejoice for all we’ve been given?

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She’s living under the stigma of her past.

See, when she was little, her daddy’s hands

slipped too far south

and she slipped away.

 

In school, they didn’t see or hear her.

She was the girl next door, golden braids

and straight A’s,

reality tucked far away inside. (Safe.)

 

Bitch. Skank. Ho. Slut.

The words followed her everywhere she went,

shouted not by the voices of her peers

but the voices in her head.

 

Lost, she wept alone in her bed

for the innocence he’d taken,

afraid to be real about the hurt

and unsure where to turn.

 

And that’s where he found her,

lost, empty, emotionally vacant.

He stole her away

only to steal what little she had left.

 

What does she have left to lose?

Destroyed, she sets out to live up to

the image in ger head

of a worthless slut who gives it all away.

 

And I have none of the answers.

And my heart is crushed by the weight

of the fact that we share in her story,

that our lives are the parallel before the fork in the road.

 

Why, God?

I’m waiting for the answer

that never seems to come.

At least, let’s wait together.

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His days are fading fast

(As are all of ours).

Statistics fight against

his chances;

No clean slates, just ruptured trust.

 

I wish you’d believe me when I say

we’re trapped in this box,

this slum,

traversing the winding alleys

of despair.

 

Don’t get me wrong,

I love this city.

But beneath the veneer,

there is too much we miss.

These glasses are more than rosy.

 

I think we’d do more good

grasping hands, showing love,

than closing our eyes.

See the truth behind this

hurting child.