Planting Seeds: One G.U.L.P Complete; Another Has Begun

For those of you who've followed my G.U.L.P. experience you're aware of what I expected to accomplish with my project. One of my goals – the one entirely outside of my control – was to see the four week undertaking move beyond me. I was hopeful that my simple idea would resonate and that others would create a G.U.L.P. project their own.

Recently, I learned that Rachel, a 28dayG.U.L.P.  Facebook "fan," and anonymous well-wisher, launched her own project. Her link is http://racheletto.blogspot.com, and I encourage you all to log on, become a “fan,” spread the word, and vote. Rachel's G.U.L.P. highlights three different, local non-profit agencies doing great, important work in our communities - and her page is much more advanced and visually appealing than mine ever was. I don't know Rachel but nonetheless feel connected, and I'm moved by her commitment. 

There's a degree of personal satisfaction whenever one has a role in inspiring the generosity of others. But I'm clear that this is not about me, or my idea. It's about having the courage to step outside of our individual comfort zones and offer what we can for the benefit of others.

The torch has been passed. It is my hope - and I'm guessing Rachel's too – that yet another person who sees the significance in this personal challenge, and recognizes the value of contributing to our communities in a creative way will step into his or her own G.U.L.P. project when Rachel completes hers.

Thank you all for your support throughout the original G.U.L.P. project; there will be more to come.  Please add Rachel's page to your fan list, and consider taking the step into this exilerating, often difficult, immeasurably rewarding experience for yourself - and others.

Day 28: Christmas Eve at SAME Cafe

It's Christmas Eve and officially the last day of my first G.U.L.P. project. Wanting today to be memorable in a different sort of way, my mom and I invested the day volunteering at SAME Cafe (So All May Eat). The cafe is one of a kind in Denver. It was founded and is operated by Brad and Libby Birky who create daily selections of savory pizzas, soups, and salads. The ingredients are bright, fresh, and all homemade using primarily organic ingredients. The Birky's pay special attention to recycling everything that can be re-purposed, and to composting all uneaten morsels. But what sets this cafe apart is that there are no set prices for the creative cuisine. No cash register to be found, patrons pay what they think their meal is worth and drop their money in a donation box. For those who are penniless, they're encouraged to commit an hour of work sweeping, wiping tables, or cleaning dishes, but no one is turned away. Others pay it forward and add a few additional dollars to the box.

There were nine of us working over lunch today, cooking, cleaning, and serving hot, nutritious meals to nearly 45 people. When I wasn't rolling pizza dough or washing dishes I would take notice of the people coming into the cafe. It appeared that most had made the trek on foot and likely had no place to call their own; they had backpacks and bags strapped around there shoulders and were briskly rubbing there hands together, encouraging the warmth to return. Many customers came in alone. Brad greeted all of them and served each one with a genuine kindness that affirmed their individual worth.

When the doors closed at 2pm the nine of us, now new friends, began to clean. It was another successful day relieving hunger and offering comfort at SAME Cafe. As we scrubbed and mopped, we all, I suspect, felt real satisfaction and a peace that comes from switching off the auto-pilot and tuning in to the needs of others. We were in a position to offer something, and we each knew, that for today, we didn't face the same stark hardships of many of the people we served.

As we put away the dishes and wiped down the refrigerators, the door opened and a man stepped in extending his hand. With a great, toothless smile, he held out a dollar. He said that while he had never eaten at SAME, many of his buddies do and that he wants to give back when he can. He didn't ask for anything in return. He simply encouraged the Birky's to keep up their important work. His gesture was overwhelming. My belief in Santa faded decades ago, but I'm certain he was on Colfax Avenue this afternoon.

With Christmas and my project's end only a few hours away, it's not visions of sugarplums dancing in my head but smoked salmon, grilled asparagus, wild rice, caramel bread pudding, and Merlot. The obvious. But far more consequential than my taste buds coming out of hibernation, is the profound sense of gratitude I'm identifying, a personal bar that's been raised, and a distinct awareness that this is just the beginning.

Day 27: One Day and Counting...

Day 26: Christmas Came Early

Calendared tonight was dinner with dear friends. It was an invitation I accepted some time ago. I was eager to see them, to catch-up, share recent experiences, and laugh, but I was skeptical about the dinner part. Susan said that she wanted to cook and promised not to deviate from my selections. Twice I offered to bring my own food. She would have none of it. I was grateful for her enthusiasm in embracing my odd decision to walk this brief path - but I was less than optimistic. Having had potatoes nearly three times a day for the past twenty-six days, I've become potato-particular. Even when I've had so little to fuss about relative to food, I've found a way to do it – just one of the many interesting discoveries in this project.

When I arrived at their home, we immediately picked up where our last conversation ended. Not overly hungry when I got there, the warmth and delicious aromas greeting me triggered my need to eat. The table was set with ice water as Susan served course one. It was a colorful dish. Symmetrically stacked on a mound of creamy, grated carrots and cabbage was what looked like chocolate cookies with an icing swirl. The "cookies" were lightly fried black bean cakes drizzled with plain yogurt. A dash of course salt topped the dish. Not only was it beautifully presented, it tasted great. I was tapped out on cabbage, but ate two additional bean cakes. Course two was the scent that enveloped my senses when I walked through the door, a curried potato, carrot stew with a dollop of yogurt. Amazing! I had three servings and lit up when they offered to send left-overs home. It will be tomorrow's lunch. I had another glass of water as they sipped beer. Not a beer drinker myself, there was no longing.

Our conversation continued as dessert was baking. I often mix honey with yogurt to satisfy my need for sweet but couldn't imagine what a baked dessert would include. Susan disappeared to the kitchen and emerged with what looked like flan. It was impressive. I ran the limited options through my head: yogurt, eggs, honey. Really? As we cut into the perfectly textured dessert I noticed a speck of black. Beans came to mind. Eewww. But a bean it was: vanilla bean. A bean, of course. Vanilla beans qualified. Susan researched it. The recipe called for vanilla extract, but Suze concluded that extract didn't meet the criteria and so she didn't include it. Rather, she scraped the vanilla bean into the dish. It was all about authenticity. Wow! The three of us took a bite. We agreed it looked sensational, but we laughed as we tried to swallow the impeccably-presented dessert. The taste was, well, different. The deep golden, carmel-colored top was honey. The recipe called for a dusting of sugar, but sugar's not included in my five condiments. The flan was exceedingly sweet. We scraped off the top and ate the middle portion. My sweet-tooth was happy.

I was uncertain going into this evening's dinner. Yet, as I sit here at my computer writing one of my last blogs for my G.U.L.P. project, it's both clear and prophetic that this evening's dinner was far-and- away the best dinner I've had since beginning this journey. The attention, thought, and time Susan and Jess put into creating this experience was such a humbling honor. While I can't eat “normally” until December 25th, this evening was as beautiful as Christmas gets.

Day 25: Conventional Comforts

This past weekend I attended a second holiday party. The invitation was from one of my favorite colleagues, Mark, and his beautiful wife, Vicki. Each party invitation is appreciated – and tempting. Tis' the season. I enjoy all of the things that gathering with friends offers. Given my restrictions, I've declined some invitations; this one I choose to attend. It was scheduled to start at 8pm. I had dinner early – a small baked potato and reheated, sauteed cabbage - no big surprise there – at about 5pm. I left the house close to 8pm. Given that I ate dinner earlier than I typically do, I suspected that hunger would set in as the hours passed.  Just before stepping out the door I thought to shell a few hard-boiled eggs and gobble them down. But I was already running late.

Should I take something with me? I had a bottle of Malbec in hand, smartly adorned with “bottle bling,” but no plans to take along food – and I knew I wouldn't be enjoying a glass of wine. But maybe I could bring nuts? Cashews are good. Maybe almonds would be more appropriate. Everyone likes pistachios. Definitely not peanuts. I couldn't bring carrots without dip. My mind began to spin. The invitation was decidedly not a potluck.

What is appropriate party etiquette? I generally bring a bottle of wine, good cheer, and high energy. I've never given it much thought. I know not to double-dip the shrimp, the pita chips, or anything dipp-able; my natural tendency is to ask questions, I reserve real self-revelation for those I trust; and, God forbid, should I spill red wine on the sofa I'd offer (insist) to pay for the cleaning. Is that sufficient? Never in my life have I asked, “What would Martha do?” Just not my thing. And is Martha the party authority? Stop, Ann, just head to the party and enjoy.

I arrived virtually at the same time as one of my dearest friends, Chris. I enjoyed connecting with my colleagues, good conversation, and water was readily available. I ate three carrots. A few people offered me a glass of wine. Slightly odd looks were given when I declined. If I could read minds, one might say “Is she recovering.” Well, maybe. Maybe I'm recovering from the conventional, from that which is expected, or ordinary, or from that which I would otherwise accept without any real thought.

As this project comes to a close, I'm rethinking all that is the established practice, especially as it relates to consumption, and especially during this time of year. As I look forward to Christmas, I'm clear that my greatest gift will be food.

Day 24: Addiction Takes Many Forms

Today I went to the grocery store for two things: water and salt.  Too busy to make the trip this past week, I've been rationing both items and it's kept me strangely preoccupied.  Yes, I do have running water, but I am a bit of a water snob and not proud to admit it.  A few years back I bought a water cooler at Target.  Truly, it tops my list of best investments (Suze Orman I am not).  I buy filtered water for .49 cents a gallon, and my two, three gallon containers are never empty for more than a day.  I'm lucky in that water, over all else, is my drink of choice.  Heavily-creamed coffee and good vino run a close second, but water is my liquid nirvana.  Included in my morning ritual is drinking a large glass of water, and for the balance of the day rarely an hour passes when I'm not sipping it.  In fact, one of the greatest perks of my job (even as I write this it sounds lame - but it's true) is having unfettered access to filtered water.  I love my water.

A deep affinity for water is understandable, maybe even admirable.  But salt?  Anyone who knows me knows my love for the age-old preservative.  I salt virtually everything: pizza, bagels, salmon, pasta, salad, bread.  Everything but drinks and foods that are naturally sweet gets a dose of the stuff.  And I won't just shake the sodium chloride at the beginning of the meal.  I salt between bites.  While growing up, one of my favorite meals - and I feel the need to add a disclaimer for those with weak stomachs - was buttermilk and pickled pigs feet.  And I salted both.

When I sat down with my dietician before stepping into my G.U.L.P. project, she certainly didn't recommend that I keep salt as one of my five condiments, rather it was the one condiment I thought about most.  I knew that I could, for a prescribed period of time, so long as I wasn't hungry, give up nearly anything.  It was salt that tripped me up.  I vacillated for weeks before settling on keeping it.  Okay, that alone should have been an indicator of my, ah, enthusiasm.  It's easy to toss salt into the cart when it's brimming with real food.  But planning a trip to the market for salt, one of two "necessary" items - that's eye-opening.  It's like making a midnight trip, with a full tank of petro, to the gas station for cigarettes.  Problem.

The good news, I have normal blood pressure and have never had an issue with water retention, two distinct consequences of too much sodium in one's system.  I like to think that my copious water consumption offsets my extensive salt intake.  It's all about balance, right?  Or, it's finding a rationalization for my extreme, let's call it, fervor.

Something more to think about...

Day 22/23: A System Failure

Last night when I attempted to log on to my blog, my computer didn't cooperate.  I couldn't access the internet.  Mild panic turned to frustration, and then to anger.  My computer is new and by all accounts ranks among the best.  Yep, my Comcast payments are current.  There was no reason I shouldn't have had access to the global information highway.  My aggravation grew.  What to do?  I thought to text each of my computer-savvy friends.  It was too late.  I thought to read the directions.  Really.  But I didn't even know what answer I was looking for.  Being the computer neophyte I am, I was completely stumped.  And trying to address an unidentified problem is like trying to cook a meal without a heat source.  Aaaahhhhh!  I sulked.  I tried to read.  I tried to log on again.  I shut the whole thing down.  I turned on Anderson Cooper.  I laid on the floor and wrestled with my dogs.  I nearly cried.  And I laughed.  I took a few deep breaths and let it go.  It would all be okay.

Posting daily blogs is part of the commitment I made to this project.  It's important for me to adhere to each of the rules that I've set.  Blogging is the public side of this personal journey, and I need to remain dedicated to both.  It all really matters.  Well, yes, and no.  Commitment absolutely matters, but in the height of my frustration I realized how a well-intentioned endeavor can become polluted when I allow my ego's indulgences to eclipse the core purpose.  The seduction of my own sense of self-importance was apparent.  Not posting my blog would in no way change how the world spins.  My goals are noteworthy, but no more relevant than anyone else's; my project is meaningful, but in no way superior to any other act of generosity.

Now, with a clearer head, a lighter heart, potatoes sizzling in the skillet, and a working internet (a phone call to Comcast solved it all), I am back on track.  And maybe a bit more evolved than I was yesterday.