Author Archives: Jenna

Cross training class: bane or boon?

Tonight I start my yoga class at Broadway Armory Park. I was enrolled in this class for 3 quarters of last year, and loved it. The City of Chicago pays for a good chunk of this program, so the fee to people like me isn’t too bad–$42 for about 10 weeks. It’s hosted in a large room with skylights and hardwood floors; all of last year I walked out of there once a week feeling like I was floating in a bubble of peace. Fitness and peace. My body felt stretchy, lithe, and wonderful. Never mind that I gained 13 pounds last year. It wasn’t yoga’s fault.

I have to say, I love feeling fit and healthy. I love exercises that tone my muscles, which is why Pilates and yoga are right up my alley. The stretching, the crunches, holding poses until your muscles are burning–I love that challenge. I’m even all for a little pumpin’ iron. Not that I’ve ever really done that. More like I lifted some weights for about 5 weeks one time and that was that. But what I don’t enjoy? Aerobic exercise. It’s my bane.

There are two main reasons for my loathing: I hate being hot and sweaty, and I hate being out of breath. That’s why the 2 attempts I have made in my life at becoming a jogger have crashed and burned faster than I could gasp “I . . . want . . . to . . . die!”

The first time I tried to conquer this loathing was with my friend Megan when I lived in Delaware. We jogged . . . twice. I think. Or maybe once together and once alone. And then we reverted to Pilates. What can I say? Pilates is like the exercise version of comfort food for me. And don’t think about that last sentence too hard or your brain may start smoking.

I tried to overcome my hatred of jogging again at the beginning of this summer. “Sweetie,” I said to my husband, “let’s go jogging today!” I sensed that the solution was to just jump right in, act positive, wear a cute outfit, and drag someone else along with me who could participate in my misery. So off we went. Keep in mind my husband has never really jogged (he’s more into the push-ups, sit-ups and such), so I was thinking we could have a nice little amble and be pathetic together. We hit the trail that goes along the lake. I ran for about 5 minutes. By then, I couldn’t even see my husband anymore–that’s how far ahead of me he was. I could sense death was near by the gasps racking my lungs. “He’s just left me here (gasp). . . to (gasp). . . to die!” I moaned, hoping for the listening mercies of any passerby. Unfortunately they were all in their little ipod worlds of jogging bliss, and didn’t seem to notice that I was about to go into cardiac arrest. I slowed it down to a walk and plodded forward for about 5 more minutes. I tried running again, kept it up for maybe 2 minutes, and then realized that my willpower had been reduced to the size of a pea, then squashed, then trampled on. Since I couldn’t bring myself to run, I kept walking.

At some point, off in the distance, I saw that my husband had turned around and was running back my way. The small dot became larger as he drew near, and before I knew it he had caught up with me. Hooray! That could only mean it was time to go home. I turned around, but by the time I was facing the other direction, he was out of sight again, dangit. And then I realized that “going home” meant covering the same distance I had just come! Who knew that picking up your own legs could be so difficult? I started to wonder if God had accidentally made my kneecaps out of lead instead of bone. Weren’t they feeling suspiciously heavy?

After agonies untold, I could finally see the end of the trail. And there was my smiling husband, jogging back towards me yet again in order to get me through the final little bit. And I ask myself–is this fair?? He’s never jogged, and yet he has no problem running for 35 minutes straight? At a fast pace?? Smiling all along his merry little way??? I thought the plan was to be pathetic together! Not for him to be competent and athletic and me to be pathetic all by myself!

And that was the last time I jogged.

Last weekend I said to him “Remember that one time we jogged?” to which he promptly responded “Oh yeah–hey, that was a lot of fun!” And that’s all I have to say about that.

Do I want the hot jogger buns? Do I want the attractive rippling calves? Yes. But do I want to feel like I’m about to drown in a pool of sweat due to lung failure? Not so much.

Enough backstory–let’s get to the meat of what’s happening in the here and now. My yoga teacher decided to teach a new class this fall that she calls “cross training,” and positioned it right before the yoga class to encourage us regulars to come to both. Now, I love my teacher. I also love the idea of having a hot, muscly body. So I signed up for both classes, trying not to think too much about the potential suffering to come–after all, when I made this decision I still had the whole summer in front of me to be free as a bird. However, the day has come, and that day is today. September 20th.

I’m scared. It’s one hour of aerobic exercise, folks. A whole hour!

There’s no question of quitting if I don’t like it . . . because I already paid. And based on my deeply entrenched inner workings, I put my mouth where my money is. If I’ve paid, I’m darn well going to get my money’s worth. So whether the experience is hellish or heavenly, my PayPal transaction guarantees I will be there, in my stretch pants and sports bra and ugly T-shirt, once a week. Now you know where you can find me from 5:30 to 7:30 on Monday nights, though whether grinning or grimacing I can’t say.

Will my Mondays through the first week of December be a haven of Muscle Misery, or Fitness Fun? Will my classmates be cold-heartedly competent and athletic and leave me in the dust of my demise? Soon, I will have answers. I’ll keep you all posted and try to keep any whining to a minimum.

What about you guys–what do you do to stay fit? And is it possible to make the transition from loathing running to adoring running? And how long do I have to run before I get the beautiful legs? (please tell me ‘once or twice’–please!)

The chicken and the axe resume their fall schedule

As we enter into the fall, one of the things I’m most excited about is cooking. I have seriously neglected the kitchen this summer–what with weddings, more weddings, family vacation, and weekends away, I just haven’t had enough of a routine to do my usual meal planning. I’ve cooked a few things here and there, but nothing like last fall and spring when I was making 3-4 new dishes per week.

When our schedule is more “normal” (which it will be starting Monday, with yoga, Bible study, and school for my husband all starting back up), about once a week I sit down with a stack of cookbooks and printed out PW and TK recipes, and float away on the wings on foodie daydreaming. I persue, salivate, and fantasize to my heart’s content as I sip my coffee. I think the last time I did that was maybe early June? I can’t wait to start again–it’s one of my favorite parts of the week.

 At some point, of course, I have to make decisions and commit to only a few recipes out of the thousand mouth-watering options, so I make a list by days of the week and hit myself repeatedly in the side of the head with a cookbook (it’s the only way I can be forced to pick my favorites). The list goes something like this:

M- Angel hair pasta with bacon and zucchini

T- Thai spicy noodles

W- leftovers/forage

Th- n/a (Bible study)

F- Sausage and peppers with rice

Sat- Lentil stew and rice

Sun- leftovers/forage

After I’ve decided what I want to make, I grab a pen and paper, go through each recipe and make a grocery list of what I need. The meal plan gets posted on the fridge so that I can reference it. I would undoubtedly forget what I was doing otherwise and end up wandering around the kitchen with a dazed expression saying “What . . . ? . . . what . . . ? . . . um, what? . . . ?” I need a plan, Stan. I need a diagram, Stanislam. I need a list, Stromquist.

It’s so satisfying.

Plus, if I plan carefully that means I only have to grocery shop once per week. And though I don’t loathe the grocery shopping experience, it’s definitely not something I want to engage in every other day. 

I usually have at least one or two days designated “leftovers/forage.” This is where our leftovers tracking device comes into play, which lets us know at a glance what’s in the fridge–I’ll be talking about that soon, in a separate post. If there are no leftovers to be had, this can end up being an Arroz a la Cubana night, or an eggs-in-a-basket night. Or I may, um, occasionally you understand, get involved in a box of Kraft macaroni and cheese. Every so often, I still experience relapse from my childhood addiction to it–I wonder if they offer programs for this sort of problem? Thursday, being community group night, we won’t have time to go home between work/school and the Bible study, so we will probably just grab a sandwich at Potbelly’s on Belmont Ave like we did last year . . . or some Panang Curry from Siam Noodle and Rice, the best Thai restaurant in Chicago (sayeth I).

One thing that I love about this season of our lives (with my husband in school and me at work all day) is that unfailingly, though I’m the head chef, my husband is in the kitchen with me during the whole cooking process. He washes dishes as I go, chops garlic, picks up the onion skins that floated off the counter, etc. We call this arrangement “the chicken and the axe.” See, I’m the axe: the master executor of the project. The one wielding the power. The one in charge. He is the chicken, whose head is cut off: brainlessly running around. Dashing here, dashing there, getting things done, but not thinking too much. It’s all about swift, automatic obedience in the kitchen when you’re the chicken. It’s a great arrangement–like having a sous-chef, I imagine, but one who you can occasionally swat on the butt as you cross each other going from sink to fridge to stove. Someone who will laugh as you do that goofy dance in your house slippers and sing opera at the top of your lungs instead of shunning you for being such a ridiculous human being.

Now the caveat to this whole thing weekly meal-planning thing is, of course, the dreaded grocery budget. Because sometimes, when I end up making scallops, steak, and salmon in one week, the weekly grocery financial guideline gets shot up all to heck. Sometimes I just neeeeed salmon and scallops. I don’t waaaannna pick between the two! Once, as my shocked eyes examined the receipt the lovely cashier had just handed me, I realized I had accidentally spent double the allotted amount. To this day I don’t quite understand how that happened, though I blame the temptations of rampant food photography, which in case you haven’t noticed is splayed all over the internet (not that I have anything to do with that den of decadence). Once we realize we have grossly overspent, if we are feeling like good citizens (which we usually are), we will agree to make it stretch for two weeks. That can be quite a fun challenge. Really, I’m not being sarcastic–it’s like a little game. We go into the stash of cans and frozen meat my grandfather likes to send our way about once a year, and figure out how to make it work. This can involve rice, a can of corn, and a frozen pork shoulder. Or pancakes from a box, a can of lima beans, and a duck. You never know what wild combinations can come forth from the storehouses that Big Jake has lovingly provided. And you can always slap an egg on something and call it a meal–that’s one of my favorite tricks. I’m gearing myself up for this since the evil meal plan I devised on Wednesday will undoubtedly cause many surprises at the cash register this weekend. Many, many surprises.

Dang cyberspace and its temptations.

Are there any other meal planners out there? Or are you more creative–can you look at a random assortment of ingredients in the fridge and whip up something amazing with no forethought?