SomaCow

In a world…
One man stood alone against a pancreas that would not produce.

By eating produce.

Hi, I am Geoff, I have the Sugar Aids, and this is a blog about me recapturing my life. Eating things right I once ate wrong, and hoping, each time, that the next eat… Will be the eat Home.

I am starting to wonder if I am becoming a vegetarian. I could never have imagined, but I just ate a bite of jackfruit, Brussels sprouts, beet stems, and beet greens for dinner. I had black beans and green beans with garlic for lunch.

I have beet marinating in my fridge. Not chicken, not pork, not a side of beef. Beet.

They are so beautiful. I like golden beets, too, but these are just amazing.

I am really enjoying learning to cook this stuff, too!

Tonight, courtesy of the Wingo (TWAMB), I tried the Gonzilla method of Brussels sprout cooking. Normally I go full onions, broth, stewing, and basically cabbage the hell out of them…

But the Brussels sprout is actually a tender, sweet little broccoloid.

Sometimes, you have to squeeze. Sometimes you have to say “Please“. I gently sliced her and 40 of her sisters in half, down the stem. I lay her down on the oven sheet, lightly dusted her with some olive oil spray. I covered her in seven spice petals, caressing her tender folds with a gentle cascade of seasoning and herbs.

I whisked her and her sistren into the 375 degree oven, and let her bask for about 30-40 minutes (it’s an art, vegetable love is).

When I took her out, she screamed for me to take her there and then. Damning the consequences, I gingerly lifted her, blew on her fevered flesh, and took her in my mouth.

OleRacea!

Jen, Baby Rowan and I are now eating them bitches like popcorn. I am not ashamed. They are so good, so complex, with crunchy thin outer shells and tender, moist inner layers!

You want a second recipe? How about those beets? When you get them at the store, they are attached to their leaves. First, some cutwork.

Remember that our ancestors used this shit to paint with. Plan and protect yourself, accordingly, unless you want to be purple. I can dig it. Purple is very sessy.

Separate the leaves from the stalks from the bulbs.

Chop the stalks into managable pieces. Skin the top layer off the bulbs, and slice them as thin as you need (I like a cm to half a cm, for beefy bites o’ beets!)

Wash everything with a nice rinse.

Chop the leaves (some stem can stay with these, just get the lion’s share off).

So what do we have now?

Leaves with some bits of stalk – throw these in a medium high pan with a tablespoon of olive oil, maybe some sautéed onions. Run em around the pan, chasing with a bit of salt and peppery as you see fit. They will act like Big, Awesome Spinaches, reducing, letting out some moisture, and tasting like goodness in minutes. Enjoy!

Stalks and Beetslices remaining – These go in a ziplock or marinating tray. Hit them with your favorite herbs spices, I go with most of the Italian team (oregano, coriander, basil, parsley, sage, salt, garlic… look, people… spices are not rocket science. What you want is a set that will lend itself to sweet (beets) and hot (pepper and paprika and chipotle)).

Get that going on, plus some apple juice, maybe some white wine vinegar, and a bit of olive oil all in the bag. Soak it overnight. Toss the bag about like it was a cheerleader and you were a power rapist basketball player.

The next day, you can roast them in the oven, if your Brussels sprouts are open minded, or you can throw them in a grill basket and flame ON! Hell, you could even pan fry them in a pinch. I highly recommend the grill. Roast them til they get just a hint of char on the edges.

They will deliver to you sweet, roasted beetflesh, completely devoid of that sorta ganky “Beet” taste your mom’s beets had.

I am not sure if that helped you. I do not care. I love what I eat these days. For REAL.

Coming soon – Thanksgiving Menu! Thanks for the idear ‘dere, Perpetrat’in’!

Tags: aids, beets, bruge, brussels, chef, cook, diabetes, flesh, how, im, red, roast, sprout, sugar, to

My name is Geoff, and I am going to die of Sugar Aids if I do not get control of it.

Today started out well. I woke up, made a healthy breakfast, went with my wife to an art festival, waited too long to eat lunch, had a nice healthy veggie wrap at Jason’s deli, came home, still felt snacky, looked in the fridge, saw watermelon, and said, “That’s fibery, and even with the sugar, I remember seeing that on a list of diabetes foods.”

Munch.

For those of you wondering, my goal is a number above 70, where the risk of a diabetic coma begins, and 120, which is a safe, healthy place to hang.

140 is the absolute highest number I want to see.

And it just keeps going up. I need it to stop, and if it gets above 180, I am taking more meds.

Meantime, what the fuck happened?

Complacency. I got lazy with my facts. I took bullshit for granted. I was “reading” a list of high glycemic index foods, not a list of good foods.

So now I am riding the wave crest, enjoying the permanent organ damage that one experiences when their blood sugar is above a 140.

My wife is unconcerned, says it’ll be okay, and I am sure she is not right. In my mind, I am watching sugary spike balls pour into my liver, ripping the soft tissue apart, crystallizing the enzymes in my stomach, smashing and rending their way through my kidneys, eroding my gums, and rubbing me raw, creating friction and destroying my body.

I feel miserable, like I broke something pretty, like I befouled something holy.

I am ashamed of myself.

I almost didn’t want to record the number, because I see it as a blemish on my perfect record. I have a hard time calling it “a bad day”, because enough “bad days” equal “dead”.

I have beans cooking. Starting tonight, back on regimen. Study any food before eating. No fucking mistakes.

You look at me like I am crazy. You say, “It’s ridiculous to declare that you will never again take a single bite of watermelon as long as you live.”

Absolutes may be for cons, but when a food burns me, it goes on the list of shit that is trying to kill me.

And right now, the list is:

Alcohol

Milk Chocolate

Just Juice

Any Soda

White Rice

White Flour

Watermelon

I really want my number down soon. I am pretty sure I Did Not Want To Die. Not for a fucking melon.

Tags: 120, 140, 70, aids, angry, diabetes, dying, glycemic, sugar, watermelon is bad for you

I am Geoff. SomaCow Media pays me to write about stuff here, and I choose to make use of that time telling you about my misadventures. Mainly, the misadventures of going from a 420 lb smoking, overeating, complete sedentary pompous ass to whatever kind of pompous ass I am becoming.

I suppose my goal is to ask myself, and often, do I want to live, or moreso to the point, “Do You Want To Die?”

I cannot stand the word teetotaler. If you look up the etymology of the word, it has a bunch of goofy stories swirling around, but it essentially stemmed from our ancestors’ fascination with Prohibition, and the “Tee-Total” abstinence from alcohol.

My experience with alcohol has been a rocky one, at best. My father was a drinker, to his health’s detriment. My stepfather also drank, and suffered some of the health problems that go with that. Odd that we toast to one’s health, no?

My family can get their drunk on, certainly. My brother had a taste for it, my other brother can handle acting as bartender at a party if you need him to, my mother is no stranger to a good cold beer, and neither is her mother. My uncle was on TV for his ability to generate more DUIs (8? 11? Someone knows the total number) than should be possible!

I remember seeing my Dad’s beer in his porchfridge, and sneaking out a can to the barn, to idly flip through the Playboy magazines and pretend I was King Shit, sippin’.

I remember my stepfather, a twinkle in his eye as he asked me to “test” the ice cold St. Pauli Girl I had just opened for him, “To see if it is poisoned or not!”

I remember sneaking ounce after ounce of my mother’s Bacardi or Vodka, to take secret sips at night in my room, wondering why people drank this awful, burning shit, which I am just going to have one more sip of…

I remember spending several months in treatment for my abuse of drugs and alcohol.

I remember getting out, and getting my hands on a twelver of Bud Ice.

I remember getting so drunk on Cherry Brandy that I destroyed a friend’s tent, and permanently stained his driveway with cherry vomit.

I also remember being turned over to my mom by the cops that next morning, stank, with my shoes tied around my neck and what felt like a throbbing hot knife buried in the base of my brain.

I remember one of the best New Year’s of my life, quietly drinking milk and irish cream, talking with my family.

I remember another great New Year’s, quietly drinking Kir Royales, and talking with my family.

I remember accruing over 100 cups at Big Belly Brewery with my wife playing trivia and acting the fool, and killing kegs of Heineken in the parking lot after work at Sam’s Club, and drinking Chivas and Dr. Pepper at my wedding, and downing six Ultimate Long Island Iced Teas and praying I could maintain, mainTAIN.

Newcastle, Köstritzer, Ommegang, Corona, Coors, Rolling Rock, Red, White, Blush, Fortified Port, Cognac, Champagne, Brut, Piper, Goldschlager, Martinis Vodka, Martinis Gin, Amaretto, Microbeers, Macrobooze, Aftershock, Everclear, Rumplemintz, Tequila, Margaritas, Scorpions, Kirins, Plum Wine, Cold Duck, Blackberry Schnapps, Sake, Egg Nog, Wassail, Jagermeister, Ale, and ninety other goddamned unfoods.

I got my drink on.

But I am learning, as I read, that I cannot drink any more.

I may not be a Teetotaler… No one should be. Absolutes are for Cons.

But I think I could learn to celebrate Temperance. Enough to make a vow, only SLIGHTLY adjusted for my own needs.

“”I agree to abstain from all liquors of an intoxicating quality whether ale, porter, wine or ardent spirits, except as medicine, or to cook with, and even then, just a bit.”

Because alcohol simply does NOT mix with Diabetes. The science is as follows.

Your liver is fucked up when you have Sugar Aids, so asking your liver to work overtime, on a poison, like alcohol, is dumb.

Additionally, alcohol sugar runs rampant in the blood, and we do not want free radical skateboarding sugars screwing up our pretty town.

Finally, alcohol limits weight loss, impairs judgment (CAKE!), and lowers your extremity temperatures. All things I do not want, or need.

So, if you love me, or you respect me, or you do not want me to bore the living fuck out of you with a six hour diatribe on why I cannot drink, leave me be, and let me sip on my coffee, tea, or water.

Because it isn’t like I didn’t have one of whatever you are having. I just had it in a different timeline than the one I now occupy.

Thanks!

Tags: Aftershock, aids, alcohol, ale, Amaretto, and, beer, Blush, Brut, Champagne, Cognac, coke, Cold Duck, coors, Corona, cream, diabetes, egg nog, Everclear, Fortified Port, girl, Goldschlager, irish, Kirins, kosteritzer, kostritzer, liquor, Macrobooze, mai, margaritas, Martinis Gin, Martinis Vodka, Microbeers, newcastle, Ommegang, pauli, Piper, Plum Wine, red, Rolling Rock, rum, Rumple Mintz, Sake, schnapps, Scorpions, sour, st, sugar, tai, Tequila, wassail, whisky, white