L U N A T A L K with Eva Moon

Day 3: Eau de Cranberry

Day 3 of the two-week liver cleanse I weigh in: SN! I’ve hit my scream number! On the nose!

Three pounds in three days? I enjoy a moment of pure gloat before the doubts begin to creep in. Wait. I cut out salt. It’s just water. But even that can’t completely drain my elation and I announce the stupendous news to the wildly cheering crowd sipping his tea in the kitchen. “That’s great, honey.”

One of the mainstays of this plan is mass quantities of something cheerlessly called “cranberry water.” Where are the marketing geniuses who dreamed up “Crangrape Cocktail” and “Craisins”? Sitting on their asses, I bet. (Crasses? Cranasses?)

Cranberry water is simply 1 cup of unsweetened cranberry juice to 3 cups of filtered water. The diet calls for at least 8 glasses of the stuff a day and I was not looking forward to it. Juice is empty calories to begin with and cranberries aren’t exactly at the top of my guilty pleasures list. But it turns out that cranberry water is really, really good. It’s light, not too intense, refreshing. I’ve been slugging it down like a champ - even mixing it with seltzer in a wine glass at dinner. I’ve considered never going back to water. Until…

I made the tactical error of reading the label. One cup of unsweetened cranberry juice is 140 calories. Even diluted, I’m probably drinking 2-3 cups of the stuff a day easy. It’s not a big deal when the rest of my daily caloric intake adds up to about 12, but what about after? Then it starts to count. Will I really want to spend a quarter of my daily calories on juice? I should have known it was too good to be true. The siren song of Diet Coke is heard in the land once again.

In other developments, food is tolerable. A grilled pork chop, tossed green salad and grilled zucchini with lemon and dill make a perfectly fine dinner. I almost don’t feel completely whiny and deprived. But the weekend is looming and it promises to be a challenge, with four… FOUR… food-encrusted events on the calendar. There are dark forces at work to lure me from the light, the right, the cranberry-lined staircase to shining victory. “Oh, come on, honey, what’s the big deal if you have one plate?”

If it was only a weight-loss diet, I’d tend to agree. Just tack on another day or two. But here’s the thing. This is a cleanse. I’m flushing toxins out of my system and giving the old liver a well-earned rest and resnorgling all the phrangellators. Will a plate of rice undo this mystical process? Would I have to start over? I have no idea. I’m supposed to see some actual result beyond a lower number on the scale. If I cheat and the cleanse doesn’t work for me, I’ll never know if it would have… if only I hadn’t…

Plus smugness is a great seasoning.

See more like that one:

• Chopping List
• The Magi had it easy...
• Day 15: Which Way to the Egress?
• Day 13: Juice of Affliction, Chili of Salvation
• Day 11: The Wall

Day 1: I can DO this

At the start of my two-week liver cleanse I weigh in: SN+3 (SN = Scream Number)

I’m not on this diet to lose weight. I’ve never been on a “diet” (Well that’s not entirely true, I did once try Atkins for several hours). I don’t even believe in weight loss diets and have droned on tiresomely about how diets don’t work and how you just have to eat healthy blah blah blah. But now I’m under doctor’s orders for two weeks for my health. It’s not a diet, see? But looking at it, I can smell victory over the Scream Number. Like countless dieters before me I can feel bright shiny hope in the air. Two weeks and I’ll reach my goal and then the sun will shine, I’ll have a kick in my step, my skinny jeans will gap at the waist! Who could resist?

I groce.

At the market, it’s a breeze. Whole swathes of the store are simply not there for me. Some swathes I eye wistfully: wine, bread. But what could match the smug feeling of arriving at the checkout stand with a cartload of greens? Ha! I think at the dumpy woman in front of me. She doesn’t have one thing in her cart that isn’t packaged in a box. I’m not only improving my health, I’m saving the planet! The hubris alone carries me at least as far as the parking lot.

Breakfast is a panful of sauteed veggies scrambled with two eggs and seasoned with herbs. Needs salt, but it’s tasty and filling. Later, I’ll have a tangerine. w00t!

Lunch is salad with turkey and then I make soup. The soup is excellent and there’s lots:

Eva’s Cleanse Soup

Put two quarts of low-sodium chicken stock and plenty of chicken parts in a big pot (I used 8 skinless chicken thighs, but use whatever you like) along with a bay leaf and other herbs. Don’t skimp on the herbs.

Simmer for a while and then add:

a handful of peeled garlic cloves
1 onion, diced
1 carrot, sliced
1 can diced tomatoes
a few handfuls of green beans
a bunch of sliced mushrooms
1/2 head of cabbage, sliced

Keep simmering until the veggies are soft and the chicken is falling off the bone.

Verdict: Needs salt, but it’s surprisingly tasty.

I’m not suffering from HUNGER so much as CRAVINGS: I have a habit of a diet Coke in the morning, a square of chocolate in the afternoon, a glass of wine with dinner, maybe a little popcorn in the evening. But it’s just two weeks. I can so do this.

I’m starting to get why people go on diets. In some ways, strict rules are easier than freedom. “No” is easier than “a little.”

See more like that one:

• Chopping List
• The Magi had it easy...
• Day 15: Which Way to the Egress?
• Day 13: Juice of Affliction, Chili of Salvation
• Day 11: The Wall

Scream Number

What’s your scream number?

You know what number I mean - the number that you never, ever want to see on the scale. The that’s-it-I’m-hiding-in-a-cave-until-it-goes-away number. The line in the sand number. We all have one. I had one and it still lives in my memory, but I’ve been on the far side of it for long enough that the screaming has abated… somewhat. Not far far, mind you. I won’t put it in print but let’s just say “SN+5″ has been the maximum. And no amount of cutting back, working out, de-fatting, un-sugaring, or calorie counting has produced anything better than SN+2.

In the physical world, going up is harder than coming down. But in the phantasmagorical nightmare that is a midlife metabolism, gravity is reversed. You become the anti-Sisyphus, forever pushing a rising boulder of fat down an impossible mountain.

But now a situation has been thrust upon me that, while it didn’t come about as an attempt to lose weight, may well have that effect. I’m down with that.

My doctor (a disgustingly fit and petite naturopath helping me through stuff you really don’t want to know about) decided I should go on a two week liver cleanse.

I am determined to see this out. I mean it’s only two weeks. A person should be able to stand just about anything for two weeks. Right? And just maybe I won’t have to choose between screaming or avoiding the scale. Just maybe I’ll wear those skinny jeans that have been smirking at me from the back of the closet.

Here are the basics:

Each day includes unlimited non-starchy veggies (no peas, corn, potatoes, no more than one carrot), 8-10 oz of protein + two eggs and two pieces of fruit (no banana). Seasonings are limited to olive oil, lemon juice and herbs. The beverage list is cranberry water (unsweetened cranberry juice diluted to paleness with filtered water).

There a few other things - supplements and such, but that’s pretty much it. No starch, no sugar, no salt, no dairy, no grain, no legumes, no caffeine, no artificial sweeteners, no alcohol, no chocolate, no fun.

At the end of it, I may be insane or dead, but my liver will be clean enough to eat off of.

Stay tuned.

See more like that one:

• Chopping List
• The Magi had it easy...
• Day 15: Which Way to the Egress?
• Day 13: Juice of Affliction, Chili of Salvation
• Day 11: The Wall

The Horse Summoner

From a conversation with a belly dancing friend:

“I bought your CD at your last show but didn’t have a chance to listen to it until my last trip to Nevada. I’ve been driving from here to Nevada for twenty years and every trip I keep hoping to see wild the horses. I know they’re out there, but I’ve never seen them. Not once. But last week, driving through the desert I popped your CD in and by the third song there was a cloud of dust in the distance. I thought ‘is that it?’ and sure enough it was! A herd of wild horses! After all this time! It was amazing!”

Who knows what secret magic lurks in unexpected places? Be open to it. And buy the CD.

But you might want to be careful about where you play it. I’m just saying.

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Lucky Numbers

Here’s an odd story out of Bulgaria.

SOFIA (Reuters) - The draw of the same six winning numbers twice in a row in Bulgaria’s national lottery was a freak coincidence, officials said Thursday.

Sports Minister Svilen Neikov ordered an investigation after the numbers 4, 15, 23, 24, 35 and 42 were selected, in a different order, by a machine live on television on September 6 and 10. The results caused suspicions of manipulation.

An investigation found no wrongdoing in the draw or determining the winners, its chairman Konstantin Simeonov said.

That’s odd enough, but here’s the really odd part:

An unprecedented 18 people guessed all six numbers when they were drawn the second time and each got 10,164 levs ($7,700). Nobody won the top prize the first time.

Assuming Mr. Simeonov is telling the truth, one can only assume that there’s a small population in Bulgaria who routinely purchase a ticket for the previous day’s numbers.

I want to think that those 18 are professional mathematicians who know that those six numbers are as likely to come up as any other six. I know of one mathematician who routinely buys a lottery ticket with the numbers 1 2 3 4 5 and 6 just for the opportunity of giving probability lessons to skeptical gas station clerks.

But I doubt it.

An interesting thought is that there may be other sets of numbers that are popular, but the only way you’d find out is when those numbers are drawn. I’m sure no one suspected the popularity of the previous day’s winners.

But it would be interesting to know what those sets are, since avoiding them reduces the odds of having to share your winnings.

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Running down

My mother has always had an intense fear of walking downhill. I never knew why until recently. In her 70s, she’s fit, active and has a joy for life I hope I can match as I go through life. But walking downhill gives her the creeping willies. She clings to my father who holds her upright until they reach level ground. Even so, when I visited them in Arizona earlier this year, she gamely agreed to a steep trail hike up to see some Native American cliff dwellings, knowing full well there was only one way down. This time, on the hike back, it was my arm she clung to while dad strode on ahead and I asked her what the deal was with walking downhill.

She told me that once, when she was about six years old she started running downhill and then found she couldn’t stop. She lost control, took a bad tumble and never got over the terror of being helpless to halt a process that could only end disastrously. I understand this feeling, which is the intersection of thrill and fear. It’s in every adrenaline moment when the decision has been made, it’s too late to back out and there’s no choice left but to ride out whatever comes next. It probably explains why she never learned to ride a bike, either. You have to be willing to trust strong outside forces to carry you along, knowing that in the end you will probably prevail and it will be all right. As you survive more of these experiences, you learn to accept the fear to get the thrill.

I understand this feeling in a new way now. I’ve been playing guitar for a month. My current goal is to learn enough to be a bad guitarist. I’m not that good yet. A major struggle of the beginning musician (and one that keeps many beginning musicians from becoming intermediate musicians) is that it takes so damn long before you can make music - before it’s fun. You have to muscle through the first months on faith that in the end you will probably prevail and it will be all right: something resembling music will happen.

But the temptation is always there to just hop on and ride like the wind. To PLAY. A SONG. How can you resist? It’s what you wanted even before you picked up that guitar for the first time. So you learn some chords, get your fingers toughened up, practice some basic strumming, and then cast about for something to play.

YouTube is the ultimate jam band. Any song, any band you want - it’s there. Credence Clearwater Revival is down on the corner whenever you want to strap up and join them. You see the Beatles standing there on that tiny stage in that giant stadium waiting for you to signal the downbeat. How could you say no? So you start and it’s going all right! You’re playing and singing along in a hearty voice and you’re thinking, “I can do this. It’s not so hard.” But then you miss a chord. And the strings keep buzzing. Your fingers sweat and the pick starts to slip. And that damn F keeps going by too fast. Suddenly you’re struggling to keep up. Your voice gets wheezy and peters out, every scrap of attention focused on making clumsy fingers MOVE. Then you hit the bridge. What’s that in the road? A Bm? Holy fuck, what kind of sick songwriter would DO something so evil?

And you fall. Tumbling into silence while your betters race on ahead, not even looking back.

It’s a humbling experience. But of course you know what to do when you fall off your bike, right?

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Bathtub of the Black Lagoon

They swarmed from the blackest depths of their hidden tubular lairs in swirling, foetid masses. Like a scene in a horror movie, the woman floated nude and serene in the water, not suspecting the horror that lurked only inches from her unprotected flesh…

I’ve been a fan of tub soaks ever since we uncovered a huge antique claw-foot tub in our first home, a 1911 bungalow in Los Angeles. It had been walled in to make a “modern” shower enclosure. We immediatedly ripped it out and muscled it into the kitchen where we painted the outside with deep green boat enamel. We had the feet re-brassed, tiled the bathroom alcove with shiny terra cotta and reinstalled it in its former location with period brass fixtures. With no heat in the house beyond a wood stove and a small electric space heater it was a favorite hangout when the weather turned chilly.

Now I have one of those spa tubs. It’s deep, big enough for two and surrounded by enough unattractive pink tile for a forest of candles, a wine glass and two curious cats. Even better is the skylight directly overhead. It’s a special treat on a winter night to loll in steamy, fragrant water watching snow slowly obliterate the view.

Do you have a spa tub? Do you still use the jets? You do at first, but if you don’t use them like every day they tend to get a little, um, murky. I know you’re supposed to run water and vinegar through them periodically, but really. After a while, it’s easier to just enjoy a quiet soak. It’s been years since I’ve used them.

Until last night - when a certain person accidentally leaned on the button.

Holy Mother of God. I may become a shower girl from here on out.

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Your Cheatin’ Guitar

I play keys. Not fabulously, but well enough to accompany myself for the most part and I lean on my band for the rest.

One particular musical rite that I’ve never been able to pull off is jamming. I’ve been to jams - generally the lone keyboard in a sea of guitars. They are filled with people who seem like mortal humans and yet no one has a problem keeping up. Except me. Jams tend to be noisy affairs and I can never hear the keyboard well enough over the din of guitars to be sure I’m on the right chord. As much music as I’ve played over the past (ahem)-ty years, I’ve never played pop or Americana so I don’t know the chords from past learning and I’ve pretty much never played I-IV-V songs. Add to that the hassle of being tethered to the grid. No electricity? No jam for me.

This all came to a head a few weeks ago at a music-intensive conference in San Francisco. I did not travel with my keyboard or amp. A keyboard had been promised at the SF end. But these things being as they are, there was no keyboard for most of the event. (No fault of the promisers. They struggled valiantly on my behalf and I felt like a troublesome, high-maintenance diva, swanning about and sighing over the lack.)

For four days and nights, spontaneous jams sprouted in parks, lobbies, hallways and hotel rooms. Jams I longed to be a part of. I don’t even like John Denver, but damn! my fingers itched to play. Jams are the music of the road. My ancestors did not flee the shtetl dragging amps and cables.

I turned to a guitar-wielding friend and begged, “Teach me!”

My first guitar lesson happened in a hotel room packed with seventeen musicians all going full-blast. It was even captured on video:

And here’s the dirty secret I learned: Guitarists cheat! You don’t need a great ear to jam. Once you know the chords, you can follow by LOOKING. I could be stone deaf and still know from across the room that we’re on D. It was one of those scales-fell-from-my-eyes moments. All this time I’d been thinking I sucked because I was the only one who couldn’t tell just by listening what the chord was. I may still suck, but I’m on to your little game, guitarists.

A keyboard finally did show up the last night. An hour before the big concert. The guy who brought it handed it over with the casual comment, “Oh, I forgot to bring the power adapter. Do you happen to have eight D-cell batteries on you?” (Oh yeah, it’ll be a relief to get them out of my pocket - they’ve been pulling my pants out of shape all night.)

Hand me that guitar. I’m heading to the jam. If you’re there, though, go easy on the barre chords. I’m still learning.

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