So I haven’t been feeling very well lately. Some of you may remember that I started getting really bad stomach pains before the wedding, which I assumed to be stress-related. It went away for a little while, but for the past couple of months, it has been back with a vengeance. My stomach is extremely sensitive and most meals make me sick. This happens particularly in the morning–I am basically screwed if I need to leave the house within about four hours of waking up, because my stomach is so unsettled that I sometimes have trouble making even the 20 minute commute to my university. I feel pretty constantly stressed out about it, and it has made me very self-conscious in social settings, and particularly in meetings and the like when it would seem like a faux pas to run out of the room in pain. Long car rides freak me out.

It is not very fun. My mom is a doctor, which is invaluable for quick medical feedback, although it also means that I’m pretty lazy and rarely make it out to see my GP. We’ve bounced a few ideas around about what it could be: some kind of bacterial infection, a dairy or wheat allergy (which was my suspicion, but I have been paying attention to when the pain happens, and it seems pretty inconsistent re: what I’ve eaten), or a stress-related illness. This morning I’m headed to finally get a blood test done (I have literally been putting this off for months,which…I know, I know) to see if it’s the former, which would be ideal as it would just take some antibiotics to solve. If the tests reveal nothing, then we’ll start looking at the food allergy possibilities. I am scared as hell of having some kind of super restrictive food allergy. But that would still be better, in my mind than just finding out that it’s “stress”, the hardest thing to actually, you know, solve, but very real and painful nonetheless. I don’t want to keep living like this.

Three years ago, I went through another spell where I felt really unwell. I was always tired and depressed, as well as cold, fuzzy-headed, and unmotivated. Something was wrong, but it was all such a vague sense of “wrong” that I did not in any way realise that I might actually be sick. I went to a counselor, told her I was struggling, and she told me I was just experiencing the normal stresses of a grad student. It did not feel normal. A few months into this funk, I had a freakout, and on a whim I booked tickets home to see my family for ten days and decompress. My mother took one look at me and said, “there is something wrong.” “I know,” I replied, and told her I was stressed out. “No,” she explained, “there is really something wrong”. And off we went to get my blood tested. I was diagnosed with hypothyroidism, a chronic illness which basically means that my metabolism is incapable of functioning by itself, thus slowing down virtually everything your body does (from digesting food to heating your body to sending you seratonin), within days. My hormone levels were nuts. I was totally shocked–I had never once thought to attribute my state to a physical illness, and I never would have gone to a doctor myself. Thank goodness my mom picked up on what was going on as soon as she saw me. I’ve been medicated ever since, and once we found the right dose, I was fine.

It took a lot of adjusting mentally to the idea that I was now a person with a “chronic illness” and that I would have to take a pill every day for the rest of my life, but hypothyroidism is at least fairly mild and easy to treat. And I cannot possibly describe how liberating it was to be diagnosed–to know that I was not crazy, or imagining what I was feeling, or whatever. And to be diagnosed with something that was so easily treatable…wow. About a month into my meds, I woke up one morning and felt actually awake for the first time in months, like my head had emerged from a cloud and everything was so clear, all of a sudden. It wasn’t until I felt ok again that I realised just how bad things had gotten previously. It was like night and day.

All that to say that I feel shaky about the often blurry line between feeling unwell due to stress and feeling unwell due to physical illness. So often the two are interlinked, of course, but it’s so hard to know when you’re just feeling “down” or “out of it” and when something is really wrong. I know that I tend not to act on these things for fear of being a whiner or hypochondriac; I have been blessed with pretty decent health my whole life thus far (knock on wood!) and I don’t want to complain. I also think this stance is a very gendered one. But I was given a real shock with my hypothyroidism diagnosis, and the reality that had I not had a perceptive doctor mom, I may have gone undiagnosed for years, totally miserable. So I am trying to be more conscious of these things. But I also worry so much that it will turn out to all be “in my head”. I just hope that I find a way to feel better soon.

Do any of you feel conflicted about how you handle your health?

I so enjoyed chatting with y’all about foodstuffs last week that I am thinking of making it a weekly occurence. Let’s be honest here: there is little that I love to talk about more than food. The mister and I used to have a food blog, but it lapsed once we moved back to Canada and found it difficult to maintain. Back in the UK, we also used to run our own little stall at a teeny local community-run farmers’ market, where we would sell homemade mostly organic baked goods. It was a very wholesome (pun intended!) phase of our lives. I had the pleasure of introducing the British to a proper bagel. So I kind of miss blathering on about food. Since I find Mondays depressing and difficult to manage, I thought that maybe it might cheer me up to start each Monday off with a post about my food thoughts for the week. Would you guys be into that?

This past week, we:

Prepared our duck prosciutto (see original food post for info), which is currently curing in our fridge. This involved dousing it in salt, then letting it sit for 24 hours, and then rinsing it, rubbing it in a mix of herbs, spices and sugar, and wrapping it tightly in a tea towel to sit for 3-4 weeks, all of which is made considerably more challenging when done while one’s persistent kittens try to steal the tasty duck breasts for themselves:

We are hoping that it will be ready in time for the as yet unplanned Hanukkah party that we are hoping to throw before we leave town for Christmas. I feel like duck is fatty enough to qualify for Hanukkah food!

Then this weekend, I baked 7 dozen of my favourite cupcakes (ginger with ginger cream cheese frosting – see recipe here), for Cupcake Camp, a delicious charity event that took place yesterday. I had actually set out to make 5 dozen cupcakes, but somehow in adjusting the recipe, the damn cupcakes just wouldn’t stop coming! It was intense. I then went to the event with two friends, all macho and ready to gorge ourselves like never before, and we all maxed out at 2 cupcakes each. Pathetic. We went home with takeout boxes and tummy aches, but not before checking out the awesomeness:

There is no greater way to bring a smile to my face than through the glory of poutine cupcakes.

My own modest little contribution is in the bottom right corner!

I came home with the following spoils of war:

I would be embarrassed to admit how obsessed I was with that pancake cupcake. Let’s just say that it made me very happy. I mean come on: it’s a cupcake that looks like a PANCAKE! Amazing. (I also love the blue-topped rainbow cupcake in the back there; so clearly baked up by a little kid, and man, little kids baking is one of my favourite things ever because I am a sap.)

Finally, I want to talk about meatloaf. I realise that most people find meatloaf disgusting. I didn’t even know what I thought of meatloaf, as I do believe that I had not tasted a bite of the stuff since I became a vegetarian at the tender age of 9 (a habit which was driven out of me in Bosnia, at the tender age of 24). But as the mister has been working nights, I’ve been looking for nice comfort food to cook for dinner to make him feel better about his shitty zombie schedule. And so last week, I decided to try this recipe based on how emphatically people raved about it in the comments. Neither the mister nor I could remember the last time we’d eaten meatloaf or if we had enjoyed it or not, but I swear to you people–this stuff is so flavourful and delicious it will blow your mind. We scarfed it down with mashed potatoes and then made sandwiches out of it for days. It will convert even the most virulent meatlof skeptic. Crazy as it may sound, it is all about the prunes and bacon.

I should also mention that on Friday night we tried out a new burger joint and ate fresh and ridiculously tasty burgers for $3.50. Seriously. Hell yeah.

What have y’all been eating lately?

Back when we were taking our pre-marital/conversion classes at our temple, we met J., a recent immigrant to Montreal from Central America, who had uprooted pretty much his entire life to come here and convert to Judaism. When we met him, he had only been here a couple of months. He’d found a job and a place to live that was in a suburb outside town, but he’d commute in every weekend to attend services. He was kind of a quiet guy, seemingly a bit lonely, and we wondered a lot what his story was. In any case, he was really nice and clearly smart and thoughtful and really effing dedicated to Judaism. I think the class was kind of awkward for him, because he was one of only two people (the other one being a total crazy weirdo) who was there without a partner, and not going through the conversion process in preparation for marriage.

As we got to know him, we learned that, indeed, J. really didn’t know anyone here. So we kept in intermittent touch with him, inviting him to my family’s holiday dinners so that he wasn’t celebrating the various Jewish holidays alone. My family, to their credit, totally welcomed him and taught him everything they could about their approach to Jewish holiday rituals (i.e. eating a lot). They insisted that we invite him to our wedding, which we did, and it was really wonderful to share all of this with him. My uncle and my father and him became quick buds, because the main thing that bonds Poles and Latinos is the ability to discuss soccer at all times.

Eventually, we learned that he was having a really hard time with his conversion process, because the rabbi he was working with was quite hard on him, and, shockingly, really racist towards him. (We have been in a rage about this ever since, but thankfully, said rabbi was recently laid off.) He floated around for a bit between the shul that G. and I attend, and my parents’ congregation, which had a very supportive rabbi; he was determined to convert, but not sure where he fit in. As you all know, inclusion is one of my major “issues” when it comes to the Jewish community, and we were really, really concerned that someone as sincerely dedicated as he was, and who had given up so much to do this, find his place within the community. It wasn’t right that he was struggling. We told him we had his back.

We haven’t been in great touch lately, but I got an email from him this week telling us that he has just completed his conversion, and thanking us for our support and saying, with amazing, mindblowing sincerity, that we had a friend in him forever. I have been thinking about this ever since; this is the kind of stuff that moves me to tears. I didn’t think we had been especially amazing to him (in fact, I was pretty bad at keeping in touch and kept feeling guilty about that), I just thought we’d done the decent thing and tried to be inclusive; Judaism is so much about community, and it seemed like the obvious thing to do to make sure that he had one. I never, ever, expected that he would attach such significance to our friendship, and I feel really touched that it meant so much. This is how good happens in the world. Through these connections; through people being kind to each other and people appreciating each other. I am so glad for him, and I feel so privileged to have made this friendship.

Next week, he’ll be doing his presentation to the community (this is a sort of ritual that the Reform movement invented as a way of publicly welcoming new converts, and it never fails to make me cry each time I am present at one) during Shabbat services, and we will be there cheering him on. I can’t wait.

(Now we just need to figure out what sort of gift to get him: originally we were thinking of this awesome Jewish cookbook that is as much a Jewish cultural history as a collection of recipes–I know, I know, this is the second time this week that I’ve plugged Claudia Roden–but considering the timing, I’m also thinking that a nice menorah could be cool? Especially as he’s only lived here a year and is pretty broke, so I imagine he doesn’t have a nice piece of Judaica to warm up his home? Any other ideas? I want something awesome that will make him feel as warm and fuzzy as he makes us feel.)

See Part I here.

Friends, can I be horrifically self-pitying for a moment? This sleeping alone business? It fucking sucks. I don’t know why it is sucking so especially hard this time around, as we have done it enough times before, but both G. and I are feeling it. I go to bed exhausted at night, but can’t fall asleep because something just isn’t right. I don’t know what to do with myself. He wakes up in the late afternoon and we spend our evening hours together, but in totally different places in our days, trying to talk with each other while often talking past each other. It’s hard to be present. I miss him so goddamn much. Even when he’s home.

We try to do nice things for each other–he often makes me breakfast before going to bed himself. I take care of a lot of the chores. We ventured out this past weekend on our mutual day off and drank beer in the rain together. But it’s still pretty damn lonely. Gestures don’t replace…actual time together.

I know that there are worse trials in life, but man, the best part of my day is usually crawling into bed with my husband, particularly in these autumn months when it’s cool and we don’t want to turn the heat up too high just get, so we are appreciative of the warmth, and we talk through our days, and no matter how stressed I am, things feel calmer. At this rate, the next time we get to spend quality time together will be when we fly to the west coast to spend the holidays with his family. In a month. So here I am, alone with my goddamn dissertation.

I promise you I will get over myself soon enough (likely the next time I get a good night’s sleep). At least I have kittens. They take care of me (when not attacking my feet).

Lately I have been discovering all manner of awesome things that I really should have known about sooner, prompting me to feel like my life up until now has been a sham. It should be noted that generally, these discoveries tend to be food-related. I don’t think that I’ve talked about food much on this blog, which is strange, since my daily life is consumed with thoughts of what glorious things to make next. I think I worried about scaring you all off with my culinary psychoses. Now, however, the floodgates are open, so beware. Anyway, my recent discoveries include:

Mongolian hotpot. We went for the first time last weekend, and, uh, we now have plans to go again next weekend. Why did I not know about Mongolian hotpot? It is like fondue x 29082354093845093.

source

The classic Martha Stewart mac and cheese recipe. I found it on Smitten Kitchen here, whipped it up last night, and feel like I wasted years concoting lesser mac and cheeses, never quite getting it right, when all along, Martha held the key to perfection. What wasted effort. I should have known.

The possibility of curing our own meats. This past weekend, we got a pamphlet with our Saturday newspaper, full of holiday recipes that made use of Quebec maple products (as it was sponsored by the local maple industry). G. quickly narrowed in on the Maple-Cured Duck Prosciutto and I remembered that awesome local duck happened to be on sale at our nearby grocery store. This baby is now doing her thing in our fridge, and we are very pleased with ourselves. We feel like this is a way cooler treat to pass around during the holiday season than Christmas cookies (although if you are doing cookies, I implore you to try this chai shortbread recipe, found via Lake Jane, which is amazing–if you email me I will even translate it for you).

Homemade chipotle, courtesey of my favourite little Mexican cafe/grocery store, right by my house. They just started pickling their own, and it’s the first time I’ve cooked with chipotle not out of a can, and…wow. I love you, homemade chipotle. I don’t have photos of the smoky peppers themselves, but here is the shop’s beautiful Day of the Dead display from a few weeks ago:

Getting off my lazy bum, actually planning menus for a given week, and therefore making grocery shopping that much more efficient. I know that most of you learned to do this within weeks of moving out of your parents’ homes, but I literally started making grocery lists off of planned menus (with lots of wiggle room, because G. and I are slaves to our cravings) a couple of weeks ago. And dude, I get it. It not only means that I don’t have to run to the grocery store every second day and be stupidly wasteful, but it’s kind of fun! I get to look forward to yummy things, instead of getting hungry every evening and then inevitably rooting through the fridge/pantry to come up with ideas. I’ll see you tomorrow, chicken tagine with tomatoes and almonds! (Recipe from this book, which I cannot recommend enough. Seriously. Buy it. It is amazing. I would marry Claudia Roden if she’d have me.)

People, what else have I been missing?

Dudes, I pretty much never think about my wedding anymore. It’s crazy how quickly this thing that was once so consuming is now so peripheral. Pretty much the only time the wedding does come up, is when I am talking with the slew of friends who have gotten engaged since we wed, and are planning their own weddings as we speak. I think I was so effin’ opinionated and vocal about how complicated our experience was, that these friends have often turned to me with their anxieties as though I have some sort of special wisdom beyond being a blabbermouth. Which I don’t, but I will still never tire of talking through these issues with people.

Watching a bunch of friends make anxiety-laden decisions about their weddings has reminded me of how HUGE every decision felt, and how much worse people made it when they implied that the wrong decision would led to a lifetime of regret. In my own post-wedding life, I have found that those boogeymonster scare tactics could not have been further from the truth. Maybe some folks do have regrets.  I did not.

Here is a list of things that I was told I would regret, and that I most certainly did not:

Not wearing a formal wedding gown. In fact, not going shopping at bridal salons, and even trying on a single conventional wedding dress. As much as folks will blather on about it being your one opportunity to wear such a confectionary piece of clothing, and the magical experience of the bridal salon, that has never been my thing and I don’t see why, post-wedding, I would feel that I missed out on it. Bridal salons still scare the crap out of me.

Seeing the mister before the ceremony. I was stressed out enough as it was, beforehand, thank goodness I didn’t have the added stress of sequestering myself away from him. It was no less special. In some ways, it was more special.

Skipping silly so-called traditions like the bouquet toss. My father and a couple of the in-laws were certain that we would regret missing out on such “fun”, as though I would not get the full “experience” without them. He was incorrect. The full “experience” was getting married. And no one freakin’ noticed the lack of tossing.

Not having a bridal party. My closest friends were my unofficial bridal party, and it was a really special experience for all of us. It would not have been more special if they were in fancy matching dresses. They looked beautiful as themselves. Who cares.

Not having engagement photos or  every single moment of the day photographed. Man, I love a lot of the “getting ready” photos I see out there, as they communicate this awesome excitement, but I am not sure what I would do with them, if I had them. As it is, we have hundreds of photos that we love already, and it’s tough to pare them down to what will fit in an album. I am a big believer in memory that does not rely entirely on photography, and so I never had the lust to document every. single. moment. We will already never use the majority of the photos that we have (which I imagine is true of most couples). Enough is enough.

Etc. etc. So many folks try to convince us that if we veer from the path of prescribed bridal convention (as though those conventions are some sort of objective thing, and not usually industry-invented pseudo-tradition), we will be heartbroken. It weirdly reminds me of that scene in Pretty in Pink where the record store owner tells Molly Ringwald that she never attended prom, and has had a void in her life ever since. I call bullshit, record store owner. Je ne regrette rien.

Photos courtesey of Davina + Daniel.

Last March, I started this blog on a whim, wanting an outlet for all of the insane wedding talk running through my head, not really knowing where it would go. I never thought that 8 months later I’d have close to 200 subscribers. What? That many folks wanting to read whatever random crap I come up with? It was startling. This experience has taught me about the tremendous power of personal blogging, and about how we can connect with people just by talking about our experiences in ways that resonate with others. These connections, hearing people say “Yes! Me too!”, helped me tremendously during my planning process, and I’ve been incredibly moved when I’ve heard that my writing has helped out other people in similar situations, too.

You may remember that, a while back, I wrote about wanting to write more about the issues surrounding interfaith Judaism. I had a million conversations about this with the mister, lamenting that most writing out there about being interfaith centres on the whole “is it or is it not killing Judaism?” question, making it hard to find words that actually resonate with those of us living these realities. I talked about how powerful it had been to write about some of this stuff on this blog, and how it was clear there were lots of people living similar experiences to ours, feeling similarly starved for a more productive conversation. We started talking about the possibility of trying to start such a conversation about interfaith and non-traditional Judaism from the perspective of those of us confidently living it, as opposed to those who are wringing their hands about it.

The wheels in my head were creakily turning. I started chatting with other bloggers who I respected, and who I thought might be interested in this sort of project. They liked the idea too. We brainstormed, and started putting things together. I was psyched, but also terrified to start a conversation on what is such a controversial subject. I am still kind of terrified.

Nevertheless, I am also really proud to share with you the results of all of this chatting:

www.fiftypercenters.com

Fifty Percenters is a group blog written by folks who are coming to Judaism from non-traditional perspectives, and our hope is to represent how diverse and thoughtful our community is. I have a lot of faith that we can build this into a really useful resource that gives voice to the 50% of Jews living in these sorts of relationships and families. I know that a lot of interfaith folks read this blog, so please do go over to Fifty Percenters and take a look, and I would love to know your thoughts on it. We are also always looking for more bloggers, so if you think that that’s the sort of thing you’d like to do, definitely get in touch with me and we’ll talk.

You will notice that I am posting there under a pseudonym (as is G.) and that the blog does not link back here. I come from a pretty tight-knit and not very open-minded Jewish community, so both the mister and I decided that we’d like to be more careful about anonymity in this new space. It feels a bit silly, writing under a fake name, but that’s the plan for now. Everything else is true, I promise.

I also have no intention of abandoning this blog; they’re two very different projects and I still hope to write about married life and other fun stuff here. It’s just that my blogging addiction is spreading!

I’m really, really excited about this project. I hope that you will be, too.

I knew we’d lose track of the cutesy monthiversaries sooner or later, but I didn’t think that we’d lapse quite so quickly! And it took us a week to realise that we’d missed it. I think we may suck at being newlyweds. Oh well. I want to say that we did something special to make up for it, but I was at a conference all weekend and would come home at night exhausted, so our weekend was as glamorous as ordering pizza and watching Mad Men. Which, let’s be honest, is my idea of a good time anyway.

Life has been rather unglamorous lately, in general, with me stressed out about work and him gone all night, but I think this is one of the cool things about being married; it makes the mundane, bleurgh periods of our lives part of a bigger picture, and thus, infinitely less depressing. Plus, for all of our tiredness and weird schedules, there are awesome things like this:

(Susan looks so angry in that photo! I don’t know why it makes me laugh so hard!)

Our next monthiversary will coincide with our five year dating anniversary, so I like to imagine that we won’t be so pathetic as to forget that one.

Have I mentioned that I rarely wear pants lately? Or, rather, I rarely wear “real” pants, preferring to lounge around the house in alternate pairs of yoga pants, usually matched with a (not at all) stylish hoodie. As I’ve intimated, I’ve been working from home lately, and maaaaaaaaaaan, have I gotten cozy. I’ve got a couch, a giant coffee table on which to spread out my crap, a fabulous red kettle that is the constant provider of tea, and a million kittens to purr in my lap as I stare at my computer screen, willing intelligent words to appear out of thin air.

This is my office.

It turns out I kind of like being a hermit. It’s hard, and I get cabin fever, which I combat by taking my walks and running errands and going to the gym and talking on the phone with my favourite colleagues like a teenage girl. But I kind of love it. Yesterday, I went in to the university I’m affiliated with to hear a talk by a colleague who is kind of a mentor to me, and saw all my old buds and co-workers and colleagues and everyone that I haven’t seen since the summer. I got there a little bit late, and tried to sneak into the room, unnoticed (I haaaaaaate being that girl), when a dozen hands started waving hello at me, including the speaker in question. I sheepishly waved back, secretly flattered that I had been missed. The talk was interesting, I threw my hat into the discussion ring a few times, kibbitzed with folks for a while afterwards, had tea with two friends, and then wandered home. And nice as it was to see everyone, MAN was I happy to be back home in my quiet house with the couch and the kittens. And I will admit, I was exhausted. I’m out of practice. I am this close to moving to the mountains of Montana, I think.

This is my secretary (chillin' on my leg).

Today is the start of a big conference at which I’m playing several roles, so I am going to be couch/cat-less until Sunday night. And surrounded by people. Talking about big brain smart things. This fills me with a little bit of terror. Which is likely a problem, considering that my academic work is very social by nature. So wish me luck in my terrifying encounters with the outside world, friends, and I’ll see you on the other side, when I am gloriously back on my coveted spot on the couch.

(Tell me that some of you are reading this in yoga pants, too. Please.)

It’s a bummer when your husband does shift work. Lately he’s been on evening shifts, which is good for his sanity, but not great for having dinner together. We’ve been surviving, though, on our two evenings a week together. I was looking forward to next week, though, when he had been told he’d be switched to days. His day shifts are early and thus kind of harsh, but at least we get proper time together. Yesterday, he called me from work with some unfortunate news; due to various factors, he was getting switched to night shifts instead. We’re talking 11pm-7am night shifts. Bum. Mer.

It’s funny how relationships can show us that we are sometimes very different people than we think we are. I used to think I was very independent within my relationships, all about being together, but doing my own thing, savouring my own time. I generally have an independent streak, so I figured this is how my personality would fit into our marriage. It turns out, not so much. While both the mister and I value our own alone time, we like to spend much, much more time together than either of us ever thought we would. I find that being in his company is not that different from being alone, and I just like…having him there. Even if I’m sitting here, blogging, while he is playing video games. We get antsy if we don’t get quality time together on a near-daily basis. I want him around a lot more than I had ever anticipated, and sometimes I secretly feel like I am faking being a card-carrying independent woman.

One of the harshest ways that I have learned this lesson is through his night shifts. I am no longer capable of sleeping alone. When the mister works nights, I get to bed at weird hours, and then I lay there, eyes open, exhausted but awake, unable to fall asleep because something is off. We’re not huge sleep cuddlers, so it’s not about sleep positions or anything, it’s just about not being able to sense his presence. I am shocked by this  reality that not having him there could disrupt my sleep so badly, but it does. It feels crazy because we spent the first two years of our relationship in a seriously long-distance situation, wherein we saw each other every two months or so. How did we get from there to this current situation of being unable to spend a night alone? I feel like a brat.

Anyway. Well will survive this spat of night shifts like we have in the past, with both of us a little underslept and whiney. Being on opposite schedules is hard, but we try to find some common ground where we can. It’s not really so bad, but I just wanted to reflect a little bit on how the pattern of our relationship is not what I ever would have expected of myself. I know that this is obviously ok (with the exception of the sleep deprivation), but it is never the less something that I am constantly learning about myself, and adjusting to.

(And if you find me posting things at random late hours over the next few weeks, you’ll know why.)