IMPOSSIBLE DREAMS

My kids and I refer to my hometown of Great Falls, Montana as “The GF”.  The GF is its own special kind of interesting and funky.  There are some things I love about The GF and some things that I could for sure do without.  The wind, for instance, the wind is not my favorite. I could do without the wind.  And The GF is windy.  Super windy.  Stupid windy.  In Paint Your Wagon, they call the wind Mariah. I do not call the wind Mariah, I call the wind yuck.  However, a big chunk of my family battles the gales and still calls The GF home, which is perfect for me because I get to visit.  I get a little taste here and there without having to batten down the hatches on a daily basis.

Speaking of Musicals, (you know the drill by now if you have been following my blog…see above…Paint Your Wagon…got it? OK, moving on) one of my strongest and fondest memories of growing up in Great Falls was Summer Show Case.  Summer Show Case was the annual Summer Musical series and for as long as I can remember, we had season tickets and we all went.  There were generally 4 or 5 offerings each summer and we went to them all.  Sometimes twice even.  The productions were well done and wonderful.  I polled my family the other day. “Which was your favorite?”  So many to choose from.  All of the classics…so hard to pick.  For me, the clear winner, Godspell.  I remember going more than once and I bought the album after and played it until the vinyl wore thin.  My mom said “Fiddler”.  I think my brother actually being in the production probably tipped the scales for her. My sister, lover of all things, struggled to choose just one, but did single out a moment in the Sound of Music. A moment when the Magnificent Mary Moore marveled the crowd with a majestic rendition of Climb Every Mountain and received a standing ovation mid performance. A moment not to be forgotten.  And I believe my Dad would have chosen Man of LaMancha. My brother chose the windmills as well.  Like father, like son.  We discussed it and agreed that my Dad would almost certainly have picked Man of LaMancha and would have further singled out the song “The Impossible Dream”.  My Dad was a dreamer for sure.  And some of his dreams were impossible.  I remember him telling me he often dreamed he could fly.  Me too.  I dream I can fly too. Lots of us do I think.  Lot’s of us dream we can fly. Lots of us dream impossible dreams.  It’s part of what makes dreams dreamy. And flying is one of my reoccurring dreams. An impossible dream…at least in this lifetime.

I got a phone call from my Daughter a couple of mornings ago… 

Daughter:  Mom.

Me: What up Maggs?

Daughter: I missed my O-Chem final…

Me: Seriously?

Daughter: Yep.

Me: Oh Shoot.

Daughter: Yep.

For reals…she had missed the final exam for her Organic Chemistry class.  A clerical error.  Date entered on the calendar months ago…incorrectly. And so what to do now.  Immediately it was decided that an email would be sent to the teacher.  Explain it, Own it, Ask for redemption, Pray.  Beyond that, nothing more to be done but wait and see.  K sera sera.  And we were calm.  No hysterics, no drama.  What’s the worst that can happen?  A failing grade.  A drop in GPA.  Not life threatening, barely life altering.  Worst case, time and money lost.  And in that moment it hit me.

Me:  Oh my gosh, Maggs, you are LIVING THE DREAM!!!

Daughter: Huh?

OK let me explain.  I have my Impossible Dream, my flying dream, but I also have a second reoccurring dream.  The one where I suddenly realize that I am registered for a class that I have never attended and now today is the final exam and I have no idea where the classroom is and I’m frantically searching to find it.  My sister has a similar dream and I know of others as well.  I think it is a common reoccurring dream theme.  Well, nightmare, really..

Me: You know, the dream…the miss the test dream, YOU ARE LIVING IT!

And we started to laugh. Because, again, we both realized that freaking out wasn’t going to solve anything.  And then another epiphany.  I’m not sure who thought it first…The Lemons. Here was a big huge Lemon and we were doing it.  Sad turned to funny.  Nothing to do but laugh.  And we did.  We laughed. And right then and there, it was decided. Matching tattoo’s.  Of Lemons, of course.  As a reminder. A reminder to Laugh.

And so we were hopeful, but realistic about the chances the test would be taken, and so to pass the time, we went in search of lemons.  We made a plan for our lemon tattoos. We will brand ourselves with a tiny reminder.  A little lemon. A reminder to Laugh. 

An hour or so later, the phone rang again…

Daughter: Mom.

Me: News?

Daughter: I’m on my way to campus.  My professor said she had a rough day too and I get to take the test if I can get there in about 5 minutes.

Me: Wow!

Daughter: Yep!  Shoot, I don’t have my ID.  Oh phew, I have one that will work.  Gotta go.

And so, I waited for news and the next phone call…

Daughter: Mom.

Me: Yo Maggs, how did it go?

Daughter: Probably not great.  Hands were shaking and sweaty. But, some points are better than none.

Me: Agreed.

Daughter: Also, I didn’t have money for parking.  Luckily, I didn’t get a ticket.  Worst day ever.

Me: Are you kidding me?  You got to take your final, you got there in time, you had an ID that worked, and you didn’t get a parking ticket!  BEST DAY EVER!  Yesterday was worst day ever. You just didn’t know it at the time!

Daughter: Oh yep good point!

We don’t know the results of the exam yet nor whether or not the class was passed or failed.  I asked my Daughter this morning if she knew and she said the results have been posted online, but that she hasn’t checked. I get it.  I didn’t push or question why. Checking won’t change the results.  The results will be the same after Christmas.  After New Years.  No rush.  For now, better things to focus on. At least for a bit.  For just a bit, the focus will be on Family and Friends and Faith and Life and Love and Lemons...And Dreams.

Live the Dream.

MIRACLE MOMENTS AND FORTUNE COOKIE PHILOSOPHY

Mine wasn’t a household of armchair quarterbacks.  My dad wasn’t a sports spectator nor a sports participator, so having the game, the match, the fight, the meet or the race piped over the airwaves into our house wasn’t a regular occurrence.  Nobody was against it in any way, it was literally just never a thought.  Except for the Olympics.  When the Olympics were on, our TV was on and we gathered together, and we watched.  We watched with interest and we watched with enthusiasm. And the specific sport didn’t even much matter, because, you know, Olympics…obviously. I find the phenomenon of Olympic viewing fascinating.  At least at my house.  Never would I ever eagerly and enthusiastically tune to a rowing repechage or biathlon competition. Except for the Olympics. When it came time for the Olympics, we watched it all. We watched curling and fencing and gymnastics and hockey and volleyball and whatever else the Games had to offer.  I was 15 years old and a Sophomore in High School for the 1980 winter games…the Miracle Year.  The year that the USA Hockey team beat the Russians and went on to win the Gold Metal.  I remember it well.  I can replay it in my head.  I remember watching the game and I vividly remember the call…the moment. “Do you believe in Miracles?”  Why, yes Al, yes I do. 

I have loads of Olympic memories.  As a kid, I remember lively discussions around the dinner table, comparing the Greats.  Nadia or Olga?  What about Mary-loo?  Does the world’s greatest Wheaties Box go to Mark or Bruce? And then many years later, with my own kids.  We watched the new generation of greatness.  We watched Michael and the Magnificents. And we cheered and we hoped for miracle moments.  And one special year, where we watched from was even memorable than what we watched. We watched from a pop-up camper. From a campground.  The camper was cozy and warm and adventury feeling and if you wanted to, you could brush your teeth, take a shower, and perform any other bathroom task needed without actually having to change position. It was an all in one stall. Bonus.  And to go along with the teeny tiny toilet, we had a teeny tiny tent garage, and a teeny tiny outdoor kitchen and even a teeny tiny television. And we watched the Olympics. In the camper. Together. In our tiny little space on our teeny tiny TV. We were tiny homers before tiny homing was trendy. When the kids and I talk about that time, the time when life led us to live in unexpected places and unexpected spaces, we laugh and we look back at it fondly.  And it always comes up.  “Mom, remember when we lived in the camper?  Remember how we piled up on the bed and how we watched the Olympics on that tiny TV?  That was cool.” Yep, kids, that was a magical miracle time for sure.

Of course, we own the Miracle movie. We own and have watched the Miracle Movie multiple times.  Multiple multiple times. I love the “Yes” moment.  It still brings back memories of my childhood. It is a “where were you when…” moment for me.  It reminds me that there is a reason the game is played.  It’s played because, no matter the odds, there are no guarantees. The outcome, while often times quite probable, is never really 100% certain.  It reminds me that sometimes, against all odds, Miracles happen. I love that moment, for sure.  But there is another moment in the movie that resonates with me as well.  The light-bulb moment. It is the moment where the team has been skating past the point of exhaustion and players are swearing and puking and then, the moment happened. “Who do you play for?” “USA”.  There, a lesson to be learned. Light-bulb lit. Not so much a miracle moment, but rather, a life lesson learned.  A fortune cookie phrase, if you will. 

Over the years I have learned to be better at watching and listening for miracle moments and for fortune cookie philosophy, not just during the Olympics, but in every day life. I try to pay attention and spot them. Moments where a life lesson can be learned.  Where the Fortune cookie gets written.  But I have to be paying attention. Sometimes the message takes time to soak in because sometimes, the message isn’t obvious. And sometimes the message isn’t intentionally delivered or even known by the messenger.  An accident almost. But there it is.  In the midst of anger and swear words and puke and poop, a little miraculous nugget of wisdom and truth.

Speaking of poop (last line, previous paragraph. Try to keep up), most hockey teams have two goalies.  Wait, Wynette… what does poop have to do with hockey goalies?  Patience Grasshopper, I’m getting there. Try not to interrupt…  On some teams, the goal tenders are fairly equal, so the playing time is fairly equal.  On other teams, one goal tender is marginally to significantly better than the other, but the playing time is still fairly equal.  And on still other teams, one goal tender gets the lion share of the games, because, presumably the one is better than the other and thusly gets to play more often.  My son has been on number of different teams and mostly on teams where the goalies got equal time, sometimes because they were equally talented and sometimes, just because.  But there was one particular year, a year where the goalie hierarchy was clearly defined.  There was an obvious number 1 and an obvious number 2.  And everyone wants to be number 1 because number 1 is golden. And nobody wants to be number 2 because number 2 is poop. And nobody wants to be poop.  Poop is poopy and people cough or they do preemptive flushing, or other sneaky techniques to pretend poop isn’t poop, but nobody is fooled. Poop is poopy. And stinky.  And so, on this particular team, there was the golden goalie and the poop goalie. Not preferring the poop position and hoping to work his way out of the poop position, young #2 went to the coach and enquired “Coach, what do I need to do to get more playing time?”  And with no pause, no hesitation, the Coach immediately responded, “Stop the puck.”  And then he walked away. Mic Drop. Likely not at all what #2 was expecting or hoping to hear.  I suspect that #2 was expecting a slightly different and more detailed response. Something more. Certainly, something more than “Stop The Puck”.  Harsh.  But also, Brilliant.  Fortune Cookie brilliant even.  Maybe even tattoo brilliant.  If you happen to play the position of goalie, and you happen to want more playing time, it is solid advice. Perfect.  OK, maybe not the stomping on the hopes, dreams and spirts of a vulnerable 13 year old boy, maybe that part was not so perfect, but if one were to overlook that nasty little detail, (which, in this case by the way, the parents of young #2 were not too keen to do), it’s actually pretty sage advice.  A solid tip.  I don’t know if the messenger meant to belittle or enlighten, and the message certainly wasn’t intended for me. But the messenger isn’t always in charge.  The messenger doesn’t always get to choose who hears the message or how the message is heard, which is an entirely separate message in and of itself.  But I heard the message, intended or not. Stop the puck, Wynette. Sometimes I get neck deep, drowning in the details and I have to remind myself…Don’t over complicate. Don’t over analyze. Keep it simple. Stop. The. Puck. Oh, yep…I get it. And I took that little strip of paper and tucked it in my wallet.  A fortune cookie message worth keeping.

Apparently, 1980 was a good year for fortune cookies. In 1980, I watched the miracle moment and I also personally learned a couple of cookie worthy lessons. I learned “do what you are supposed to do, whether or not you think someone is watching” and “just because other people do it, doesn’t make it right.” I know what you are thinking…Oh boy, Wynette, what terrible things did you do to have to learn those doozies? I always figured you were a trouble maker! Ease up, Skippy, and let me just set the record straight right here and now. I wasn’t the one that actually did the deed that triggered the need for some lesson learning.  Not only did I not do the deed, I didn’t even know the deed had been done. Not until the learning the lesson part was taking place, anyway. But, I was on the team.  And when a couple of teammates think it would be a harmless, great, and fun idea to scratch their jersey numbers into a graffiti covered, old wooden tabletop nestled among the veritable smorgasbord of numbers and initials scratched there before them, well, if that happens, then the whole team gets to learn the lessons and apparently the best team teaching tool is to run together. And run. And run. And there is puking and there are tears. And swear words.  And while the running is happening and the body fluids are escaping, the coach imparts a story of young boy.  As the players are running, the coach tells a story of himself when as a young boy, he received a wood burning set as a gift. And at first, most of the team is confused by the story being told. And then the coach talks about the choices the young boy made, the trouble he got into with the wood burning set, and the lessons he learned as a result of his actions…and then it clicks. Cookie cracked. There are wood burners amongst us and just because other there had been other wood burners that burned things before and just because nobody seemed to care or to be paying attention to what was being burned, doesn’t make it OK to burn whatever we please.  And because we are a team, we will learn the lessons together. And we will run together. Messages received.  Lessons Learned.

Please pass the cookies.

JUST A SEC...

I was a master multitasker. At least I like to think I was, and WAS being the key word here.  Now?  Not so much.  Now, I am not much of a multitasker at all.  Much as I hate to admit it, I have lost one of my favorite Wonder Woman powers.  These days I am pretty much a one task at a time kind of gal.  These days, even the slightest interruption to the task at hand can result in a somewhat frantic request for a brief reprieve… “Just a sec”.  I literally can’t put socks on and respond to a simple question at the same time.  And this development is one big fat slice humble pie for me.  Me, who once prided myself on my “I am woman see me multitask” abilities. Now I am “One Task Winnie”. Pooh...

I didn’t even notice it at first…the loss of my multitaskyness. Kind of like glasses.  I look back at pictures of myself without glasses and I am amazed.  Was there really actually a time not so long ago that I could function without glasses, without bifocals, no less?  A time where I could safely shampoo and condition in the proper order without first having to strategically place the bottles so that I would know which was which?  Those were the days… And there must have been an actual day.  An hour.  A minute.  A second even.  That one second where I could still see the writing on the bottles without glasses and then the next…that second where I couldn’t. 

Sometimes I think about calves (the cow kind, not the leg kind) in that same way.  I often marvel at the idea that if I had a baby cow, I could pick up that baby cow every day, three times a day even, and then suddenly there would be that moment, that point where my calf became cow and my carrying days would be over.  That one pound, that one ounce even, and the scales would be tipped. When I had my kids, I could pick them up, hold them, carry them.  With ease.  With one arm even. I could walk around for hours, baby on board. No problem.  Now? Not so much. During those early years, I picked my kids up and carried them around every day, all the time. For years. Of course, I stopped picking them up and carrying them around well before I was completely physically unable, because obviously, carrying a 14 year old around would be odd. But still, even if I had never stopped by choice, even if I had gone on picking them up and carrying them around day after day after day, at some point, at some moment, I would have failed. There had to have been that calf to cow moment. That split second in time where I transitioned from “can” to “can’t’ and whenever that moment was, it came and went and I didn’t notice.  Yes, Yes, I can likely still lift one of my kids off the ground if I really really try, but barely, and carry them around?  Nope, no way.  That ship sailed a long time ago.  And it was gone in the blink of an eye. In just a second... 

I didn’t notice at first that I had transitioned into a life of monotasking, or at least I tried not to admit it.  “Mom, what time are we leaving?”  Just a sec, Son, I’m tying my shoe.  “When will dinner be ready?” Just a sec.  “Mom” Just a sec, just a sec, just a sec.  It has become my go to phrase.  My family finds it irritating but at least somewhat amusing and for sure good source of  "poke fun at mom" material.  No longer can I cook dinner, watch the news, solve complex algebra equations, and plan the week end camping trip simultaneously. Somewhere along the line I lost that skill. Age, Mad Cow, not sure of the cause, but I miss it.  I liked being a multitasker.  I sort of prided myself on my ability.  It made me feel like a Get Shit Done kind of gal. Not that I think single focus bad. Actually, I think focusing on one thing at a time can be a great thing and I think things get done and probably better quality is often the result.  But for better or worse, my personality has often lead me down the path of quantity in favor of quality.  If some is good, more is better.  That was my food motto for sure. Before the monster.  

And so I am learning to adjust.  Awareness being the first step.  I know now that I can’t have a conversation of any consequence while performing another task.  But I don’t always remember in the moment.  I am a work in progress for sure.  In my defense, I went from being a juggler of multiple balls to mostly only being able to keep a single ball afloat.  And sometimes I forget.  I forget to line up the bottles so that shampoo comes before conditioning. And instead of carefully placing all of my balls in a line so that I can pick up one at a time and give each their due attention, I forget, and I throw my balls in the air. All at once. Fully expecting to dazzle the world with my juggling talents. And my balls drop.  And they roll away. Under the couch or in a dark corner.  I eventually realize my mistake and set about picking up the scattered balls and I find some, but inevitably, not all.  And that thing I was doing goes on the "just a sec" list and just a second becomes just a minute, which becomes pretty soon, which becomes wait, what?

 On May 18^th, 2015, I wrote about the lemons. And on that day, on May 18^th 2015, some 861 days, 13 hours, 39 minutes and 16 seconds ago, when I posted Laughing at Lemons, my next blog entry was already on my mind. I was busy composing it in my head. It was one of many balls in the air. And I would write my next entry soon…very soon.  And then, then the balls came down. And that one rolled out of sight. I have noticed it peeking out from the shadows now and again over the past 861 days, but rather than picking it up, I gave it a little kick. I kicked it further out of reach, further out of sight.  When I would see it and kick it, I told myself I would pick it up in a little bit...in just a sec.

My sister and I are doing a challenge. In a nutshell it is about setting some goals and some form of public humiliation for failure to achieve said goals. More on that later. Anyway, a little over a week ago my daughter texted me. 

Daughter: You should blog again…it should be one of your new health goals…mental health

 And in that instant, my daughter had found the ball.  The one I had dropped and had then ignored and even kicked aside. And she gently dusted it off and rolled it in my direction.  I don’t remember exactly when or how I dropped it, and I can't imagine why I didn't try harder to find it or why when spotted, I chose to push it further away.  One second I had been a blogger and the next second I wasn’t.  And now there it was…the ball.  She rolled it right out in front of me, impossible to ignore. And I picked it up.  

Me: Good idea, I will make it a goal. 

Daughter: cool

Me: I have my first title.

Daughter: What is it?

Me: Just a sec.

Daughter: 

Me:

Daughter:

Me: That's the title.

Daughter: Oh, lol!

Just a sec…

LAUGHING AT LEMONS

My daughter graduates from High School next week. I am so very proud of the strong and independent woman she has become and I can’t wait to watch and see what the next chapter of her life brings. 

One of my hopes as a Mom is that somewhere along the journey of being a Mom, I might be able to impart some valuable tip or life lesson…something that would matter, and would sink in and would somehow have a positive impact on my kids lives…Call it my Mommy Mission.

Yesterday, my son and daughter and I spent a good hour texting back and forth and laughing about some of the aspects our lives over the years that have been, let’s just say, somewhat less than ideal.  We hee hee’d and lol’d and used a plethora of emoji’s and all of the other texting versions of chuckles and laughs as we made fun of each other, ourselves, and our circumstances, both past and present. And then, out of the blue, my daughter texted the following… “I think our family motto should be: When life hands you lemons, make really inappropriate jokes about them until it switches in your brain from sad to funny.”

And so today I am a happy Mom.  I am happy because I know that as I am sending my daughter off to college, she is ready. She has a tip…she has learned a lesson.  She knows about the lemons. She has been handed the lemons before and she knows they will come her way again. And she will be ready for the lemons. And when the lemons do come, when she is handed more lemons, she will laugh.  She will look the lemons square in the face, and she will make really inappropriate jokes about them, and then, somewhere deep in her brain, the sad will turn to funny. And she will laugh.

Mission Accomplished.

FINGER FOOD

I am a tactile eater. There, I’ve admitted it.  I like to eat with my hands.  I am a finger food fanatic.  Not just your traditional finger foods…For me, if it’s not in liquid form, my preference is to pick it up. To touch it. Yesterday, I was having a snack and was eating it with my fingers.  My snack was fermented beet slices and they were delicious, by the way.  Here is a little word to the wise… when one eats pickled beet slices with ones fingers, one can expect a bit of stainage.  Eating pickled beets without utensils results in red stained finger tips.  So, if you are going to have a snack and that snack happens to be pickled beets, and you don’t want to expose your finger food fetish, you might want to use a fork. Just saying. 

Before we go any further, yes, I know how to use utensils, and yes  I do use utensils in public, mostly,  and often at home, but mainly out of habit and guilt I think. And yes, I wash my hands well before I partake in any fork free pleasures. That said, when the opportunity presents itself, I prefer to be a hands on kind of gal when it comes to food. 

Over the years, I have learned to embrace the uniqueness that is me… and this is just another one of those areas I’ve learned to accept and embrace.  I prefer to touch my food.  It’s just a part of who I am…take me or leave me. But if you do take me, and if you should happen to invite me over for dinner, you might be wise to give me a paper napkin instead of one of your fancy cloth ones…just in case. "Hide the best linens, Honey!  I've invited Wynette over for dinner!"

I know I am not alone in this.  There are more of us finger foodies out there than you might think.  For example, if I were living in another country or immersed in another culture, I might fit right in…Also at  preschool…I would fit right in at a preschool too.  

My brother used to give me a hard time about pretty much everything.  In his defense, he also taught me to play baseball and basketball and and he was an amazing big brother, and still is. But, he gave me a hard time about a lot of things because that’s what big brothers are supposed to do. Thusly, he made it his mission to harshly critique the whole eating with my fingers thing.  And apparently, a smudgy glass is one of the telltale marks of a tactile eater…”I wonder whose glass THIS one is?”  He would say as he inspected my not so pristine looking water glass while clearing the dinner table. Oh whatever, brother, I might be hungry later, and if I am, I can just lick the outside of my glass. You just keep eating those french fries with a fork. Dork.

 My therapist reminds me that it is OK to have some smudges in ones life and says I should just let my brothers hurtful comments about my smudgy glass and my sticky fingers go…I’m not convinced…about letting it go.  I hold grudges.  I’m imperfect that way.  And over the years, I have had a special knack for getting my brother back. As you may recall, there was the incident with the Jart, and I also admit that I may have once played a small role in an event where he swallowed an S hook.  He was putting together  his new pitch-back I think, and put an S hook in his mouth as he worked  and I may have given him a slap on the back or maybe jumped on him and covered his nose and mouth with my hands. I don’t remember exactly, but apparently, paybacks are a 5 year old with smudgy, sticky little food stained hands...Oh whatever, judgers. It was a long time ago and I am a work in progress. Plus, not to worry, it all came out in the end. No surgical procedures required. Case closed. I was talking on the phone to my niece today and told her about the S hook incident and how I was planning to write about it. She giggled and exclaimed that she couldn’t wait to read about her dad ingesting random hardware and she laughed as she pondered the shape of an S hook, the path that it took, and marveled at it’s safe passage and eventual departure.  I love that girl! Love her dad too.

OK, back to the beets.   So, I stood there in the kitchen, admiring my red fingertips, a byproduct of my beet eating method, and suddenly I was struck.  I was just standing there with my teeth in my mouth, minding my own business when out of nowhere, my brain just up and decided to take a happy little skip in a marginally related, but mostly random direction…Mad Cow…And  I was suddenly thrust into a memory  from childhood. Of strolling down to the neighborhood convenience store to buy a snack.   My two snacks of choice back then were pistachios or the ever popular and oh so cool Lick-M-Aid... sometimes also called the Fun Dip. I’ve never understood that…same product, two different names…Helmans/Best Foods…why? But I digress.  Anyway, pistachios or Lick-M-Aid. What to choose? Both heavenly treats for a touchy tactile taster such as myself.   By and large, it was pistachios that would win the battle for my heart and my gut. For sure, if it was the Fall, I would get pistachios because people gave out Fun Dips for Halloween, but nobody ever gave out pistachios, so that pretty much sealed the deal.  And I would buy a bag of lovely red pistachios. 

For mysterious and mystical reasons that I did not question, when I was a kid, pistachios were red.  Not naturally red, but rather dyed red.  And the red bled. On everything.  And there was no hiding the fact that pistachios had been consumed.  Red fingers, red lips, red tongue, and red stains on clothes from wiping said red fingers and lips.  Back then, I never questioned the redness of the pistachio. It just was.  So now, curious, I did my research and came to find out it was purely cosmetic.  The red dye was nut makeup.  Neat.  Apparently, back then, the harvesting process caused unsightly blemishes on the shell of the pistachio and distributors, in all of their wisdom, thought it wise to dye those hideously imperfect  little guys red.  Great plan.  Add a little artificial colorant to an otherwise healthy snack.  Perfect.  I remember when naked, undyed pistachios started to appear in stores.  I thought them odd.  Less attractive…less appealing somehow.  A movie star without makeup.  A cake without frosting.  A pistachio that wasn’t red was all wrong.  I had been brainwashed by a society that told me if a pistachio wasn’t caked in red foundation, it wasn’t worthy of my time, my money, or my taste-buds. Now, of course, I know. Now I know that the naked nuts, perfectly pristine in their natural, undoctored form, were superior.  They were undunked and free. Free from the burden of ridiculous and unnecessary red dye. And eventually, slowly but surely,  real beauty won out and the red pistachio all but disappeared in favor of the natural nut…until recently.  I recently read that red pistachios are making somewhat of a comeback. Apparently the dying process has been improved and the red doesn’t rub off so much anymore so some of the nut jobs are bringing them back. They are bringing red pistachios back…seriously. Now that’s nuts.

OK, back to the topic at hand...handy eating.  I did a little research on that topic too, and I found the most wonderful news!  Eating with your fingers is totally in keeping with the whole paleo/primal lifestyle!  It is perfectly acceptable practice among the caveman hunter/gather types and actually has some super cool benefits.  So hooray for that!  Turns out I am way ahead of the game on this one.  When I became a Wahls Warrior, a Paleo Princess, I had to learn to be a good greens and veggie eater.  I had to work at increasing my fermented food intake. I had to expand my meat horizons unto uncharted territory. I had never even heard of Kombucha before and I was a novice smoothy maker at best.  But on this one, on eating with my fingers, I am a rock star from way back. I am a seasoned pro. And to find out after all these years that it is actually good for me? Huge bonus.  For once, there is something that is good for me that I actually already did in the first place. Yay me! 

 So what’s so good for you about tactile eating, you ask?  Well let me just tell you what I’ve come to learn. And I know it’s all true because I found it on the internet.  The following is so good and written so well that I’m just adding it word for word from a post from theprimalist.com…

5 reasons to get your hands dirty:

It’s primal. Eating with your hands is common in many parts of the world. Utensils are a man-made invention that not all cultures warmed up to. We’ve learned so much from our ancestors and various hunter-gatherer tribes about health and nutrition – could they be onto something here, too?

Improved digestion. Feeling your food is a like a heads-up to your stomach, signaling “Incoming!” Your hands become an extension of the digestive system. Millions of nerve endings in your fingers relay the message that you’re about to eat, including the temperature of the food, level of spiciness, etc. to prep the stomach for digestion. Handling the food with your fingers releases digestive juices and enzymes.

Heightened awareness. Many experts have noted the importance of being relaxed and “present” at mealtime. A calm, aware state allows optimum digestion and helps with not overeating. Eating with a fork and knife can become mechanical, done absentmindedly while watching TV. You’ll inevitably feel more connected with your food when you eat with your hands.

Engages all senses. The smell of your cooking fills your home. The feast looks appetizing. You hear how crunchy it is as you take that first bite. And of course it tastes delicious. But as far as feeling it, you’re limited to the textures you experience in your mouth. Or are you? Eating with your hands adds a tactile dimension to your meal and engages all of your senses. Some people firmly believe that to completely enjoy your food, you simply must eat it with your fingers.

It’s fun. Don’t kids just look so happy and carefree, eating with their hands? Live a little, try something new, have some fun :)

So there you have it.  I am vindicated.  I am actually quite a progressive and evolved warrior.  My dirty little fingers secret is actually a super cool paleoish gut healthy practice. So there, brother!  And so I will display my red stained fingers with pride. 

Oh, and just one more bit of food for thought…ever wonder why restaurants mostly offer appetizers for Happy Hour?…I think maybe it is because appetizers are mainly finger foods  and finger foods give us an excuse to eat with our fingers, and eating with our fingers make us happy!  Hence the name Happy Hour!

Happy Happy Hour!