Burger and fries: a love letter

I was going to run this morning. The half-marathon is in 2 weeks; I have one last 13 mile training run to do before I cut down on mileage and taper. I was supposed to do it on Saturday, but was leading my event. I’d planned on doing it today, but as I was brushing my teeth, I had the the knowing that this was not a great idea. I still haven’t “come down” after my event… and I sense that until I do, I need to keep my energy close to home.

Here is what I did right after my event to begin the counter pose. I am so proud of myself, because I have had to learn what my body, this glorious female animal that I have been entrusted with, actually needs. (God, don’t get me started on mainstream marketing and advertising to women. That’s for another day.) I remember going to my a coaching event years ago, my first one. It was in a hotel in an airport. I didn’t know how to travel or feed myself the food I need when I’m not at my house. I didn’t know that the energy in those events can get crazy and scattered. I also had the belief that I had to sit, like a good girl, through all the official program, start to finish, even if I personally was full or done or needed something other than being with a lot of people.

I subsisted on airport food court edible products.

I barely went outside.

I felt caged. There wasn’t a lot of green space. I had to get outside and be in nature, but the only nature to be found was a green strip by the airport departures road. I took off my shoes and meditated by a bunch of cars.

By the morning of the third day, I was hunched over a McDonald’s burger outside the event hall, feeling crazed and out of my mind. A kind woman asked me if I was okay, and I said no. I felt awful.

I joke with myself that I need to write a book about socializing for introverts. Or business for introverts. Or some manifesto about how extroverts give us unworkable advice about how to be that just might kill us, if we aren’t careful.

Then I get curious if I am telling myself a story about how I am an introvert, and that it doesn’t event exist.

Then I don’t care if I’m making it up or not, I just want to take good care of this creature I inhabit, that is both me and something else.

So here is what I did after my event: I drove to a park on a hill. I parked my car. I lay on the ground under some trees. And I rested, as the cherry blossom petals fell on me. I let myself feel: tired, glad, used, full, in awe. And then?

Then the hunger came on.

I have learned that I need to eat differently when I lead events. I have developed a little menu for myself when I travel, too - so I get the fuel I need, and there is enough room for error if I’m in a place that doesn’t prepare food with care or know about how to cook veggies or doesn’t use quality protein. This time, it was kale smoothies with coconut oil for breakfast, the heaviest meat I can find for lunch, and a light dinner.

When I travel, it’s scrambled eggs with sausage for breakfast, the wildest greens I can find with steak for lunch, and a light dinner with more protein. I’ll eat this for 3 or 4 days when I’m on the road in hotels. I tend to eat vegetarian in airports because the quality isn’t always so great.

So, as I was feeling my back against the earth, and letting the memories of what had just happened swirl around me in no particular order, I got massively hungry.

And what I’ve learned about this creature I inhabit is that at the end of an event like this, I need salt, fat, and red meat. (Shout out to the Swashbuckler, who made me aware of this).

Salt is grounding. And something about the heaviness and bloodiness of read meat that satisfies the hunter in me, in moments like these.

So I took myself out for a burger and fries and a ginger beer. The Philosopher and I eat animals that have been raised humanely, as my farmer’s husband once said to me “they just have one bad day.” But this isn’t always easy to figure out when you’re out in the world, so I give myself permission to fudge. I know myself well enough to know that when I get super-orthodox about stuff like this, it makes me less healthy, not more. And my body trumps any rules I try to impose on her, so if she needs to eat meat, I trust her to tell me what and how.

This burger comes from the best butcher in my city, so I feel pretty good about that. Even though I’m not clear where their animals come from. For now, it’s good enough.

So man, this burger.

I met two women at the bar and we fell into easy conversation, which caused me to breathe, instead of inhaling my food. But man-oh-man, was it good. The french fries were super salty, they stung my tongue. It was so pleasurable.

Side bar: knowing how to salt food is an art form. I intend to learn it. The Philosopher gave me a salt cellar for Christmas a few years back, this little bowl that sits on our kitchen table that I fill with flinge-salt. Well, that’s what they call it in Sweden. I don’t know how to spell it. In English, maybe it’s called something like finishing salt. It’s these little pyramids of salt crystals culled from the ocean, often from the salt fields in France. But I know there are other locations, too.
You take a pinch between your thumb and pointer finger, and crush the salt over your food. And it’s friggen powerful. Sometimes in the afternoons, I eat almonds and dried fruit and salt, straight from that little bowl. So good.

Let’s see… did I have a point here?

Oh yes, my finishing of an event regimen. Lay under a cherry tree. Eat a burger and fries. Came home and talked with my love. And then soaked in a salt bath by candlelight.

Oooh la la they should make that whole thing a spa service. Except they can’t. But that’s how I roll. Tree laying-burger eating-conversating-salt bath. Bam.
###