At the mention of chili peppers, several images/fragmented thoughts flash into my mind.
I see red.
I see a group of long haired guys with guitars singing “Hey Oh” They want me to listen to what they say oh.
I see little dancing peppers with faces singing about baby back ribs…and barbeque sauce (In my mind, this last line is sung in deep bass)
I see flames erupting from my mouth. Water makes it worse. Must eat bread.
I see doctors and nurses in a hospital about to perform knee replacement surgery.
OK, so I lied about that last image. I’ve never associated chili peppers with hospitals, unless maybe I’m there to treat third-degree burns on my tongue. But according to an AP article, doctors are experimenting with these spicy specimens as possible painkillers in agonizing surgeries like knee replacements. Doctors drip the fiery chemical in chili peppers, called capsaicin, directly into a patient’s open wound. What do I say-oh to that? Ouch.
If salt in an open wound is cliché for intensifying pain, instincts tell me that chili-pepper juice on broken flesh is cruel and unusual. Disclaimer for reader at home wanting to test this theory—don’t. Doctors use an ultra-purified form of capsaicin in their experiments. In a controlled environment, doctors suggest that drenching exposed nerves with chili-pepper serum provides a numbing effect similar to the sensation in your mouth after the initial burning of biting a chili pepper wears off. The benefit of this alternative pain reliever—patients would need less of the effective yet dangerously addictive narcotic painkillers.
Despite my hesitations to treating wounds with the same vegetable that cooks are advised to handle with gloves, early studies suggest that these doctors are on to something. In a study of people undergoing knee replacement surgery, the half treated with capsaicin used less morphine in the 48 hours after surgery and experienced less pain for two weeks after the surgery. Chili peppers the new Valium? Wouldn’t be the first time my instincts lost to a PhD.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Sunday, October 28, 2007
Put your spices to the test!
Tonight, I took the McCormick Spice Check Challenge. Nutmeg, cinnamon, cumin, ginger, bay leaves, chili powder—I put it all on the line. Their challenger: Father Time.
If you’re like me, you didn’t know that spices expired. Ground spices last for two or three years, but whole spices and extracts can last up to four years. I always assumed spices were like wine, better with age. Perhaps this is because at my home in Melbourne, there’s a cupboard stocked with spices I distinctly remember using as a child. I just turned 21, but I’ve been cooking since I was too little to see over the counter. I’d drag a chair across our tile floors (which produced a sound similar to fingernails on chalkboard), and stand on it to cook.
But the McCormick Spice Check Challenge isn’t just for the ignorant. Even the spice savvy probably have a few senior citizen spices lurking in the cabinet. Here’s how you can tell. If your spice was made in Baltimore, Maryland, it’s at least 15 years old (a.k.a. - expired). Spices in tin containers, expect black pepper, are at least 15 as well. Still no luck—check for a “Best by” date on the bottom of the container (Duh). Sometimes, instead of a date, there is a code. Fear not. A Fresh Tester on McCormick’s Web site lets you search for spice age by code also.
As for my challenge results, I was 5 and 1. A perfect record thwarted by a 2002 bottle of ground cumin. Of course, this tested my spice supply in Gainesville, which consists mostly of Publix-brand spices (Publix=cheaper than McCormick). As for the Melbourne pantry, spices are definitely the underdog.
If you’re like me, you didn’t know that spices expired. Ground spices last for two or three years, but whole spices and extracts can last up to four years. I always assumed spices were like wine, better with age. Perhaps this is because at my home in Melbourne, there’s a cupboard stocked with spices I distinctly remember using as a child. I just turned 21, but I’ve been cooking since I was too little to see over the counter. I’d drag a chair across our tile floors (which produced a sound similar to fingernails on chalkboard), and stand on it to cook.
But the McCormick Spice Check Challenge isn’t just for the ignorant. Even the spice savvy probably have a few senior citizen spices lurking in the cabinet. Here’s how you can tell. If your spice was made in Baltimore, Maryland, it’s at least 15 years old (a.k.a. - expired). Spices in tin containers, expect black pepper, are at least 15 as well. Still no luck—check for a “Best by” date on the bottom of the container (Duh). Sometimes, instead of a date, there is a code. Fear not. A Fresh Tester on McCormick’s Web site lets you search for spice age by code also.
As for my challenge results, I was 5 and 1. A perfect record thwarted by a 2002 bottle of ground cumin. Of course, this tested my spice supply in Gainesville, which consists mostly of Publix-brand spices (Publix=cheaper than McCormick). As for the Melbourne pantry, spices are definitely the underdog.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Airborne's reputation may be decieving...
Some little girls ask Santa for Barbie dolls. Me? I wanted the Dr. Dreadful Freaky Food Lab. Commercials on TV had me hooked. Kids in white lab coats mixed bubbling green concoctions in beakers and drank out of skull-head cups. Forget Easy Bake Ovens, with Dr. Dreadful’s lab I could make slimy gummy spiders and a goop called monster skin.
On Christmas morning, Santa came through, but I can’t say the same for the wild, white-haired Dr. Dreadful. “Looks gross tastes great!” he promised. Never trust a mad scientist. My homemade sludge look gross alright—tasted worse.
Airborne, a popular supplement and supposed immune system booster, reminds me of my Freaky Food Lab. Maybe it’s the way the tablet fizzes and bubbles in water as if some complicated chemical reaction is going on. Or maybe it’s the sour expression that involuntary comes over my face as I choke down the potent liquid. Lemon-lime, zesty orange—don’t let these tutti-frutti flavors fool you. I suspect the second-grade school teacher that created Airborne shares Dr. Dreadful’s definition for “tastes great.”
But perhaps the most striking similarity between the trendy cold medicine and my childhood food lab are the empty promises. Despite Airborne’s reputation as the miracle-cold reliever, a little research uncovers a surprising lack of scientific support.
As a dietary supplement and not a drug, Airborne is not regulated by the FDA. True, Airborne gives a detailed ingredient list (which is better than some supplements), but the accuracy of these numbers and the safety of the ingredients overall is not regulated by any governing body.
This may be forgivable if I was confident in the integrity of the company. Here’s the real roadblock. Airborne endorsed a bogus study by GNG Pharmaceutical Services to make their product look better. According to Airborne, GNG conducted a professional, double-blind placebo-controlled study on Airborne. Their findings—Airborne works. The catch—turns out GNG is actually a two-man operation (one without a college degree) created solely for the purposed of the study. There were no tests, clinics, etc., just good old-fashioned lies.
If this isn’t enough to make you think twice about Airborne, consider the extreme dosages of vitamins. Airborne is packed with Vitamins C and A—both vital to a healthy human—but too much of a good thing can be dangerous. Excess Vitamin C can cause nausea and diarrhea, and an overload of Vitamin A could lead to Hypervitaminosis A, a condition with side effects including, birth defects, liver abnormalities, reduced bone mineral density (putting women at risk for osteoporosis) and central nervous system disorders. Get rid of the sniffles or continue to have dense bones. Not a tough one in my book.
To be fair, one dose of Airborne does not exceed the Vitamin C and A levels per day. However, if taken once every 3 hours and up to 3 times a day as directed on the box, you could easily triple the daily values. The maximum Vitamin A a person should ingest in one day is 10,000 IUs. There are 5,000 IU of Vitamin A in one caplet of Airborne alone. As for Vitamin C, it’s safe to intake about 2,000 mg a day. The amount of Vitamin C in one Airborne caplet—1,000 mg.
And even if you were willing to risk bogus studies and ODing on vitamins, there’s still no proof that Airborne actually works. No legitimate studies back this claim up, and many doctors are indifferent or even negative toward the product.
As for me, my personal testimony on the supplement disproves arguments on both sides. Last week when fighting a cold, I averaged about four doses a day of an Airborne-copycat (a generic CVS brand of the same supplement that costs less!). In one weekend, I polished off an entire tube of the supplement. The results—I still had a stuffy nose and headache even after my Airborne binge. Has my liver become abnormal, my bones more frail or my central nervous system compromised? Not that I’m aware.
One thing I do know. The experience of zesty orange liquid burning down my throat—dreadful.
On Christmas morning, Santa came through, but I can’t say the same for the wild, white-haired Dr. Dreadful. “Looks gross tastes great!” he promised. Never trust a mad scientist. My homemade sludge look gross alright—tasted worse.
Airborne, a popular supplement and supposed immune system booster, reminds me of my Freaky Food Lab. Maybe it’s the way the tablet fizzes and bubbles in water as if some complicated chemical reaction is going on. Or maybe it’s the sour expression that involuntary comes over my face as I choke down the potent liquid. Lemon-lime, zesty orange—don’t let these tutti-frutti flavors fool you. I suspect the second-grade school teacher that created Airborne shares Dr. Dreadful’s definition for “tastes great.”
But perhaps the most striking similarity between the trendy cold medicine and my childhood food lab are the empty promises. Despite Airborne’s reputation as the miracle-cold reliever, a little research uncovers a surprising lack of scientific support.
As a dietary supplement and not a drug, Airborne is not regulated by the FDA. True, Airborne gives a detailed ingredient list (which is better than some supplements), but the accuracy of these numbers and the safety of the ingredients overall is not regulated by any governing body.
This may be forgivable if I was confident in the integrity of the company. Here’s the real roadblock. Airborne endorsed a bogus study by GNG Pharmaceutical Services to make their product look better. According to Airborne, GNG conducted a professional, double-blind placebo-controlled study on Airborne. Their findings—Airborne works. The catch—turns out GNG is actually a two-man operation (one without a college degree) created solely for the purposed of the study. There were no tests, clinics, etc., just good old-fashioned lies.
If this isn’t enough to make you think twice about Airborne, consider the extreme dosages of vitamins. Airborne is packed with Vitamins C and A—both vital to a healthy human—but too much of a good thing can be dangerous. Excess Vitamin C can cause nausea and diarrhea, and an overload of Vitamin A could lead to Hypervitaminosis A, a condition with side effects including, birth defects, liver abnormalities, reduced bone mineral density (putting women at risk for osteoporosis) and central nervous system disorders. Get rid of the sniffles or continue to have dense bones. Not a tough one in my book.
To be fair, one dose of Airborne does not exceed the Vitamin C and A levels per day. However, if taken once every 3 hours and up to 3 times a day as directed on the box, you could easily triple the daily values. The maximum Vitamin A a person should ingest in one day is 10,000 IUs. There are 5,000 IU of Vitamin A in one caplet of Airborne alone. As for Vitamin C, it’s safe to intake about 2,000 mg a day. The amount of Vitamin C in one Airborne caplet—1,000 mg.
And even if you were willing to risk bogus studies and ODing on vitamins, there’s still no proof that Airborne actually works. No legitimate studies back this claim up, and many doctors are indifferent or even negative toward the product.
As for me, my personal testimony on the supplement disproves arguments on both sides. Last week when fighting a cold, I averaged about four doses a day of an Airborne-copycat (a generic CVS brand of the same supplement that costs less!). In one weekend, I polished off an entire tube of the supplement. The results—I still had a stuffy nose and headache even after my Airborne binge. Has my liver become abnormal, my bones more frail or my central nervous system compromised? Not that I’m aware.
One thing I do know. The experience of zesty orange liquid burning down my throat—dreadful.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
12 places that make you wish you were bubble boy
Antibacterial gels out. Disinfectant wipes ready. Germ-a-phobes beware. We’re about to tackle the 12 grimiest places in our daily lives and needless to say, it could get dirty.
At No. 12 on the list and weighing in at a whopping .04 killograms—the hotel room remote. Not only is this little device the portal to mind-numbing entertainment, but turns out it’s haunted by the ghosts of hotel guests past—sickly hotel guests that left their virus germs behind.
No. 11: Your office phone. That receiver tucked between your cheek and chin is packed with 25,000 germs per square inch.
No. 10: Your bath tub. Need a bubble bath after a long day of work—try bacteria bath. A typical tub is festering with 100,000 bacteria per square inch.
No. 9: Mats and machines at the gym. Shed a few pounds, catch a few germs. At least they don’t weigh much.
No. 8: Playgrounds. Large groups of small children + running, climbing, swinging, chasing, touching, poking, tickling, fighting, etc. = play day for germs.
No. 7: Your purse, especially the bottom. OK, I can vogue for this one. My bags have seen better days. Guys—you’re off the hook. Or are you? Man-purse?
No. 6: ATM machine buttons. Transferring funds and germs! Sadly, the number of germs on an ATM button most likely one-ups your checking balance. These keypads are grimier than most public bathroom doorknobs.
No. 5: Shopping cart handles. Think of all the children that sit in carts while Mom shops, and this one makes a lot of since. Where children are, filth follows.
No. 4: Drinking fountains, especially at schools. These instant thirst-quenchers are also bacteria spigots, some covered with 62,000 to 27 million bacteria.
No. 3: A load of wet laundry. Don’t be fooled by the mountain fresh scent, many soaked loads are tinged with dirty underwear cooties, a.k.a. E. coli.
No. 2: Airplane bathrooms. Not extremely surprising, although the article does mention that the “volcanic flush” in these bathrooms often leads to an eruption of bacteria and germs.
And now, drum roll please…
The No. 1 most disgusting place you encounter on a daily basis…your kitchen sink. Perfect. The place where we wash food before ingesting and dishes before eating. Mmm. The number of bacteria on the drain alone—500,000.
At No. 12 on the list and weighing in at a whopping .04 killograms—the hotel room remote. Not only is this little device the portal to mind-numbing entertainment, but turns out it’s haunted by the ghosts of hotel guests past—sickly hotel guests that left their virus germs behind.
No. 11: Your office phone. That receiver tucked between your cheek and chin is packed with 25,000 germs per square inch.
No. 10: Your bath tub. Need a bubble bath after a long day of work—try bacteria bath. A typical tub is festering with 100,000 bacteria per square inch.
No. 9: Mats and machines at the gym. Shed a few pounds, catch a few germs. At least they don’t weigh much.
No. 8: Playgrounds. Large groups of small children + running, climbing, swinging, chasing, touching, poking, tickling, fighting, etc. = play day for germs.
No. 7: Your purse, especially the bottom. OK, I can vogue for this one. My bags have seen better days. Guys—you’re off the hook. Or are you? Man-purse?
No. 6: ATM machine buttons. Transferring funds and germs! Sadly, the number of germs on an ATM button most likely one-ups your checking balance. These keypads are grimier than most public bathroom doorknobs.
No. 5: Shopping cart handles. Think of all the children that sit in carts while Mom shops, and this one makes a lot of since. Where children are, filth follows.
No. 4: Drinking fountains, especially at schools. These instant thirst-quenchers are also bacteria spigots, some covered with 62,000 to 27 million bacteria.
No. 3: A load of wet laundry. Don’t be fooled by the mountain fresh scent, many soaked loads are tinged with dirty underwear cooties, a.k.a. E. coli.
No. 2: Airplane bathrooms. Not extremely surprising, although the article does mention that the “volcanic flush” in these bathrooms often leads to an eruption of bacteria and germs.
And now, drum roll please…
The No. 1 most disgusting place you encounter on a daily basis…your kitchen sink. Perfect. The place where we wash food before ingesting and dishes before eating. Mmm. The number of bacteria on the drain alone—500,000.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Sleep: How much is too much?
Good morning, I guess. I’m not sure the proper greeting protocol at 3:30 in the morning, which contrary to this Web site’s recorded post time (which is always wrong), is the time at my writing of this post. Why, might you ask, would anyone be blogging at 3:30 in the morning? Technically, I just woke up from a nap. An 11-hour nap.
Of course, when I laid down for a nap at 4:30 p.m. yesterday, I only intended for a 2-hour snooze. I didn’t have a busy evening ahead, but there were some things I wanted to do. Write a blog for my health and fitness writing class (check!). Eat dinner. Go to the weekly Campus Crusade for Christ meeting. Brush my teeth before bed.
But instead, I slept. Apparently, with my cell phone clutched in hand. At least, that’s how I woke up this morning (?). Two interesting observations: first, I must have deliriously disabled the alarm that went off at 6:30 p.m. yesterday. Second, there are at least 50+ friends that I usually see at Cru meetings (I’m not popular, the meetings are huge, usually 400+ people). My point—no calls.
At least I will feel rested, right? Well, not if I’ve overslept. According to Dr. Russell Rosenberg from Northside Hospital Sleep Medicine Institute, if I increase my sleep-time by more than 40 to 50 percent in one night, I’ll feel groggy. This week, I averaged 4 hours of sleep a night. By Rosenberg’s standards, anything over 6 hours is lethargic. But since 4 hours is an extreme case, I’ll adjust my calculations with the more reasonable average of 7 hours a night. Acceptable sleep-in time: 10 ½ hours. Darn.
Of course, when I laid down for a nap at 4:30 p.m. yesterday, I only intended for a 2-hour snooze. I didn’t have a busy evening ahead, but there were some things I wanted to do. Write a blog for my health and fitness writing class (check!). Eat dinner. Go to the weekly Campus Crusade for Christ meeting. Brush my teeth before bed.
But instead, I slept. Apparently, with my cell phone clutched in hand. At least, that’s how I woke up this morning (?). Two interesting observations: first, I must have deliriously disabled the alarm that went off at 6:30 p.m. yesterday. Second, there are at least 50+ friends that I usually see at Cru meetings (I’m not popular, the meetings are huge, usually 400+ people). My point—no calls.
At least I will feel rested, right? Well, not if I’ve overslept. According to Dr. Russell Rosenberg from Northside Hospital Sleep Medicine Institute, if I increase my sleep-time by more than 40 to 50 percent in one night, I’ll feel groggy. This week, I averaged 4 hours of sleep a night. By Rosenberg’s standards, anything over 6 hours is lethargic. But since 4 hours is an extreme case, I’ll adjust my calculations with the more reasonable average of 7 hours a night. Acceptable sleep-in time: 10 ½ hours. Darn.
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
Maniac on a Magna (a.k.a.- My Bike)
Today I biked 13 miles on accident, 12.95 miles to be exact. I know because MapMyRun.com told me so. I use this Web site often, which allows you to plot and save courses in online maps around the world. Sometimes I use the map system to find and measure new running routes in my neighborhood. Today, I wanted validation for the ridiculously sweaty state that I found myself in after my biking extravaganza. Exhausted after 5-mile bike—embarrassing. Drenched after 13-mile all-out sprint on wheels—alright.
What ended as a half-marathon length bike, started as my typical 3.29-mile bike to school (distance, again, courtesy of MapMyRun.com). At about 7:55 this morning, I groggily slid on my bicycle and set out for a leisurely ride. Factoring in a handful of hills, stoplights, my lack of shape and still-sleepy state, the morning ride usually takes about 20 to 25 minutes.
About 20 minutes in, two panicked thoughts suddenly came to mind. I had forgotten my cell phone, and I didn’t take the trash out. Long story short, I needed the cell phone. As for the trash—it’s my week. Right now, I’ve got about a 4-4 chore record. It could use some sprucing
Hence the unexpected biking. Class got out at 10 a.m., and I needed to be back in Weimer by 10:40. That left me a 40-minute window. Needless to say, I biked my heart out. My butt went numb, my legs ached and my hair was matted to my head underneath my shiny blue helmet. I pedaled right through the pain. My chest heaved in great gasps for air. I kept on. I challenged the monster hill on 8th Avenue and for the first time ever, I won. For the first time in my biking history, I didn’t have to get off my bike and walk up that dreaded hill. I was a pedaling maniac and nothing could stop me. Not even my shoe, which flew off at one point, perhaps due to my voracious pedaling, and caused my foot to slip and become impaled by my own pedal. Blood gushed, but I grabbed the shoe and pushed forward. Every minute counted.
Breathless and clocking in at 15 minutes on the first leg, I reached the house, threw my bike aside and ran in the front door, helmet still buckled to my head. I quickly sutured my wounds, grabbed my cell phone, realized that in fact, it wasn’t trash day after all and promptly jumped back on my bike for another hail-Mary run to campus.
Gulping air and clothes clinging to skin, I rolled into my classroom at a triumphant 10:45. Not bad.
What ended as a half-marathon length bike, started as my typical 3.29-mile bike to school (distance, again, courtesy of MapMyRun.com). At about 7:55 this morning, I groggily slid on my bicycle and set out for a leisurely ride. Factoring in a handful of hills, stoplights, my lack of shape and still-sleepy state, the morning ride usually takes about 20 to 25 minutes.
About 20 minutes in, two panicked thoughts suddenly came to mind. I had forgotten my cell phone, and I didn’t take the trash out. Long story short, I needed the cell phone. As for the trash—it’s my week. Right now, I’ve got about a 4-4 chore record. It could use some sprucing
Hence the unexpected biking. Class got out at 10 a.m., and I needed to be back in Weimer by 10:40. That left me a 40-minute window. Needless to say, I biked my heart out. My butt went numb, my legs ached and my hair was matted to my head underneath my shiny blue helmet. I pedaled right through the pain. My chest heaved in great gasps for air. I kept on. I challenged the monster hill on 8th Avenue and for the first time ever, I won. For the first time in my biking history, I didn’t have to get off my bike and walk up that dreaded hill. I was a pedaling maniac and nothing could stop me. Not even my shoe, which flew off at one point, perhaps due to my voracious pedaling, and caused my foot to slip and become impaled by my own pedal. Blood gushed, but I grabbed the shoe and pushed forward. Every minute counted.
Breathless and clocking in at 15 minutes on the first leg, I reached the house, threw my bike aside and ran in the front door, helmet still buckled to my head. I quickly sutured my wounds, grabbed my cell phone, realized that in fact, it wasn’t trash day after all and promptly jumped back on my bike for another hail-Mary run to campus.
Gulping air and clothes clinging to skin, I rolled into my classroom at a triumphant 10:45. Not bad.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
Salmonella - it's what's for dinner!
Somehow, I’ve made it through 21 years of life without once trying a chicken pot pie. I’ve unintentionally denied my taste buds the experience of this dish always pictured on frozen-dinner boxes as a flaky crust exploding with chicken morsels, green peas, carrots and some unidentified gooey filling. Chicken pot pie could be my future favorite meal. It could also trigger my gag reflex. Either way, I’m not planning on exploring my body’s reaction to this cousin of casserole any time soon, at least not the frozen dinner version by ConAgra Foods Inc.
On Wednesday, the company asked stores nation-wide to take their Banquet brand chicken pot pies off the frozen-food shelves. It seems an extra surprise in these pies gave some customers more of a chicken-pot-pie explosion than they bargained for. The secret ingredient—salmonella.
Salmonella is bacteria that, when ingested, can cause nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, fever and chills. As of Wednesday, the frozen dinners had been linked to 152 cases of salmonella in 31 states, including 20 hospitalizations.
Although 152 select people throughout the U.S. might disagree, I find my own apathy to the news more disturbing than the actual outbreak. Salmonella—so what? Last month it was Topps Meat Co. and 21.7 million pounds of E. coli-infested hamburger meat. Before that, salmonella scares recalled spinach, cantaloupe, peanut butter (also a ConAgra Food Inc. product) and a supposedly-popular snack called Veggie Booty. Yawn. Even our pets have had their fair share of contamination with the recall of Bravo! cat and dog food for, you guessed it, salmonella.
So, what’s the deal? Why the seemingly constant influx of contaminated foods? Isn’t that why we have organizations like the FDA and the USDA?
In February, when Peter Pan peanut butter was banned to never-never land, I remember actually caring. My roommates and I checked the serial numbers on our two unopened jars and found matches (Publix had just had a two for one special on Peter Pan brands. Impeccable timing or just suspicious?). We didn’t throw the peanut butter out right away, don’t ask me why, but I remember making a point not to eat it.
Today, if my freezer was erupting (sorry, I can’t help it) with the red boxes of Banquet’s chicken pot pies, I might have decided to take my chances against salmonella. I might have regretted it later, but all the same, something is wrong when a warning for food poisoning is old news.
On Wednesday, the company asked stores nation-wide to take their Banquet brand chicken pot pies off the frozen-food shelves. It seems an extra surprise in these pies gave some customers more of a chicken-pot-pie explosion than they bargained for. The secret ingredient—salmonella.
Salmonella is bacteria that, when ingested, can cause nausea, vomiting, abdominal cramps, diarrhea, fever and chills. As of Wednesday, the frozen dinners had been linked to 152 cases of salmonella in 31 states, including 20 hospitalizations.
Although 152 select people throughout the U.S. might disagree, I find my own apathy to the news more disturbing than the actual outbreak. Salmonella—so what? Last month it was Topps Meat Co. and 21.7 million pounds of E. coli-infested hamburger meat. Before that, salmonella scares recalled spinach, cantaloupe, peanut butter (also a ConAgra Food Inc. product) and a supposedly-popular snack called Veggie Booty. Yawn. Even our pets have had their fair share of contamination with the recall of Bravo! cat and dog food for, you guessed it, salmonella.
So, what’s the deal? Why the seemingly constant influx of contaminated foods? Isn’t that why we have organizations like the FDA and the USDA?
In February, when Peter Pan peanut butter was banned to never-never land, I remember actually caring. My roommates and I checked the serial numbers on our two unopened jars and found matches (Publix had just had a two for one special on Peter Pan brands. Impeccable timing or just suspicious?). We didn’t throw the peanut butter out right away, don’t ask me why, but I remember making a point not to eat it.
Today, if my freezer was erupting (sorry, I can’t help it) with the red boxes of Banquet’s chicken pot pies, I might have decided to take my chances against salmonella. I might have regretted it later, but all the same, something is wrong when a warning for food poisoning is old news.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
Triathlon=hardcore
This weekend, my sister, Katie, attained a new level of hardcore. Sure, she’s cried with my mom and me at the Tour de Pain. Sure, she’s competed in cross-country races and finished a marathon (26.2 miles). But this weekend, she tackled another beast entirely: a triathlon.
On the eve of the much-anticipated race, I helped my sister prepare. We carefully packed an extensive checklist of provisions: goggles, towel, running shoes, biking shoes, bike, race number, spare tire, helmet, etc. Even two helium balloons made the cut. Once everything was accounted for, we unpacked and checked again. Then we made a triple check just to be safe. A few more checks ensued, although how many is hard to tell.
At one point, my sister paused from her OCD to try on her swimming cap and goggles. The swimming caps were color-coded by race start time, and my sister was in the hot pink group. She was thrilled. She looked like a hot pink-headed, goggle-wearing zombie, and I couldn’t help but laugh. However, there’s something about a swim cap that screams intense, thus—hardcore factor No. 1.
By 8 a.m. on Saturday, those of us without circulation-constricting caps were in the minority. My sister waded in the choppy, smelly river water with hundreds of other triathletes (including several UF Tri-Gators) and prepared for a quarter-mile swim. This swim was no lap in the pool. This was a swim-for-survival against 50-mile-per-hour winds. This was a fight to stay afloat despite the occasional foot in the face of another swimmer close by. Drowning, I realized, was a real possibility—hardcore factor No.2.
My sister emerged from the water looking relieved but still with two legs of her sprint triathlon to go. Leg two—a 16-mile bike ride over two causeways. Factor in windshield and spontaneous rainstorm for another potentially life-threatening situation. Leg three—a 5k (3.1 miles) over and back over the still gusty causeway. Needless to say, here we have hardcore factors No. 3 and 4.
After just under two hours of non-stop movement over land and sea, my sister crossed the finish line slightly wind-blown but victorious. She wore a red finisher’s medal and a somewhat delirious smile. Finishing alive—hardcore factor No. 5.
My role in this whole operation—photographer. I took pictures from the sidelines (not super hardcore, although out-of-control bikers did pose imminent threat to spectators). Perhaps one day I’ll join my sister’s danger-laden sport, but for now, I’m content experiencing the thrill of triathlons vicariously. Truth be told, I was exhausted pretending.
On the eve of the much-anticipated race, I helped my sister prepare. We carefully packed an extensive checklist of provisions: goggles, towel, running shoes, biking shoes, bike, race number, spare tire, helmet, etc. Even two helium balloons made the cut. Once everything was accounted for, we unpacked and checked again. Then we made a triple check just to be safe. A few more checks ensued, although how many is hard to tell.
At one point, my sister paused from her OCD to try on her swimming cap and goggles. The swimming caps were color-coded by race start time, and my sister was in the hot pink group. She was thrilled. She looked like a hot pink-headed, goggle-wearing zombie, and I couldn’t help but laugh. However, there’s something about a swim cap that screams intense, thus—hardcore factor No. 1.
By 8 a.m. on Saturday, those of us without circulation-constricting caps were in the minority. My sister waded in the choppy, smelly river water with hundreds of other triathletes (including several UF Tri-Gators) and prepared for a quarter-mile swim. This swim was no lap in the pool. This was a swim-for-survival against 50-mile-per-hour winds. This was a fight to stay afloat despite the occasional foot in the face of another swimmer close by. Drowning, I realized, was a real possibility—hardcore factor No.2.
My sister emerged from the water looking relieved but still with two legs of her sprint triathlon to go. Leg two—a 16-mile bike ride over two causeways. Factor in windshield and spontaneous rainstorm for another potentially life-threatening situation. Leg three—a 5k (3.1 miles) over and back over the still gusty causeway. Needless to say, here we have hardcore factors No. 3 and 4.
After just under two hours of non-stop movement over land and sea, my sister crossed the finish line slightly wind-blown but victorious. She wore a red finisher’s medal and a somewhat delirious smile. Finishing alive—hardcore factor No. 5.
My role in this whole operation—photographer. I took pictures from the sidelines (not super hardcore, although out-of-control bikers did pose imminent threat to spectators). Perhaps one day I’ll join my sister’s danger-laden sport, but for now, I’m content experiencing the thrill of triathlons vicariously. Truth be told, I was exhausted pretending.
Saturday, October 6, 2007
It's my workout, I can cry if i want to
Every time my family runs the Tour de Pain, a series of three road-races in 24 hours, you can count on two things: One—somewhere between finishing the 4-mile beach run on Friday night and waking up for a 5K at o’dark hundred on Saturday morning, we are wondering if it’s two late to refund our entry fee and abort fitness mission. And two—before the weekend ends, at least one of us will cry.
We’ve all cried once, me, my mom and my older sister. My breakdown was about 2-miles deep into the dreaded beach run, and there were several factors that, at the time, warranted a good cry. First of all, we were running slanted. For some reason, the beach was on a sharp incline instead of its normal flatness. Also, we were running an out-and-back course, meaning we ran 2 miles in one direction, about faced and ran back. Meaning, super-fast runners are coming back long before I’m even approaching the half-way mark. Meaning, I’m running in loose sand to make room for these ultra-athletes.
Thirty-degree tilt and quicksand for footing not enough to shed a few tears? Mile marker two—enter high tide and soggy shoes. Running shoes, by the way, need a disclaimer, something to the effect of, “Warning: These shoes become bricks when wet.”
So, at this point, I did what anyone does when they are running through 3-inch deep water with sand sticking to every inch of bare skin, 10-pound cinderblock shoes and 2 miles still remaining. I sobbed. My chest heaved from shortness of breathe and sheer exasperation. I cried like a baby for its mom. Then my mom passed me, so I cried a little harder.
According to an MSNBC.com article, “Moved to tears: Workouts and waterworks,” tears and sweat go hand in hand. However, unlike my miserable breakdown, the article referred to tears of joy or release.
The article explained that when we stress or experience something negative, we often physically tense up our bodies to block out the emotion. The motion of exercise can cause these pent-up emotions to resurface. Often this happens in exercises like yoga or Pilates.
Although I’ve never witnessed any sudden outbursts in yoga class (though I’ve only been to a handful), the potential for exercise to release emotions doesn’t surprise me. I often rely on runs to relieve stress or anxiety, so why not sadness? On The Franklin Institute Web site, the article about the human brain and stress gives several methods to do away with anxiety. Two methods they mentioned are exercising and crying. Combining the two just seems more efficient.
So do I see any sob-fests on my runs in the near future? Not likely. But if you see me jogging down 16th Avenue with tears streaming down my face, know that they are tears of joy. But just to be safe, you may want to stop and offer me a lift.
We’ve all cried once, me, my mom and my older sister. My breakdown was about 2-miles deep into the dreaded beach run, and there were several factors that, at the time, warranted a good cry. First of all, we were running slanted. For some reason, the beach was on a sharp incline instead of its normal flatness. Also, we were running an out-and-back course, meaning we ran 2 miles in one direction, about faced and ran back. Meaning, super-fast runners are coming back long before I’m even approaching the half-way mark. Meaning, I’m running in loose sand to make room for these ultra-athletes.
Thirty-degree tilt and quicksand for footing not enough to shed a few tears? Mile marker two—enter high tide and soggy shoes. Running shoes, by the way, need a disclaimer, something to the effect of, “Warning: These shoes become bricks when wet.”
So, at this point, I did what anyone does when they are running through 3-inch deep water with sand sticking to every inch of bare skin, 10-pound cinderblock shoes and 2 miles still remaining. I sobbed. My chest heaved from shortness of breathe and sheer exasperation. I cried like a baby for its mom. Then my mom passed me, so I cried a little harder.
According to an MSNBC.com article, “Moved to tears: Workouts and waterworks,” tears and sweat go hand in hand. However, unlike my miserable breakdown, the article referred to tears of joy or release.
The article explained that when we stress or experience something negative, we often physically tense up our bodies to block out the emotion. The motion of exercise can cause these pent-up emotions to resurface. Often this happens in exercises like yoga or Pilates.
Although I’ve never witnessed any sudden outbursts in yoga class (though I’ve only been to a handful), the potential for exercise to release emotions doesn’t surprise me. I often rely on runs to relieve stress or anxiety, so why not sadness? On The Franklin Institute Web site, the article about the human brain and stress gives several methods to do away with anxiety. Two methods they mentioned are exercising and crying. Combining the two just seems more efficient.
So do I see any sob-fests on my runs in the near future? Not likely. But if you see me jogging down 16th Avenue with tears streaming down my face, know that they are tears of joy. But just to be safe, you may want to stop and offer me a lift.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
Sick of exercising sick!
I’m intimidated by gyms, I’ll admit it. Maybe it’s the machines that all look alike, but all have very specific and different purposes. Sure, I could read the instructions, but then I might as well paint a sign on my forehead that says, “I don’t belong here.” Maybe it’s the body builders lifting their 40-pound dumbbells while I struggle with my 5-pounders (8 on a good day). Maybe it’s the full-length mirrors, my fear of falling off a treadmill or the full-fledged stakeout for a machine at some gyms like Southwest Recreation Center on campus. In the case of Gainesville Health and Fitness Center, it could be the sheer size of the parking lot that unnerves me. A person could get lost in a parking lot like that.
But last week I went to the GHFC with my health and fitness writing class, and there’s something to be said for confidence in numbers. Two trainers at the gym spoke to our class about functional exercising, exercising based on movements instead of muscles, and the importance of exercising in the aging population. Then we had the opportunity to ask questions of our own.
A combination of awkward silence and newfound confidence in this unfamiliar environment prompted me to raise my hand.
“Is it true that exercising when you’re sick can help you recover,” I asked.
One look at the trainer’s face, and I knew my cover was blown. I felt the words “I don’t belong here,” searing into my forehead.
No, it turns out, was the obvious answer
While part of me instantly regretted asking the token “stupid question,” another part of me found the rest of the trainers’ response enlightening and helpful.
One trainer explained that sickness is like an injury to the body, so our workout schedule should be adapted accordingly. Both of the trainers suggested taking time off until the body recovered, and at the very least, they insisted that exercisers modify workouts to make them easier on sick days. An article on CNN.com, although a year old (hence I may be behind the times), outlined a similar position on exercising when sick.
So now I know; running when I’m feeling feverish will probably make me feel more feverish. Common sense—1. Strange and illogical myth that I believed for many years—0.
But last week I went to the GHFC with my health and fitness writing class, and there’s something to be said for confidence in numbers. Two trainers at the gym spoke to our class about functional exercising, exercising based on movements instead of muscles, and the importance of exercising in the aging population. Then we had the opportunity to ask questions of our own.
A combination of awkward silence and newfound confidence in this unfamiliar environment prompted me to raise my hand.
“Is it true that exercising when you’re sick can help you recover,” I asked.
One look at the trainer’s face, and I knew my cover was blown. I felt the words “I don’t belong here,” searing into my forehead.
No, it turns out, was the obvious answer
While part of me instantly regretted asking the token “stupid question,” another part of me found the rest of the trainers’ response enlightening and helpful.
One trainer explained that sickness is like an injury to the body, so our workout schedule should be adapted accordingly. Both of the trainers suggested taking time off until the body recovered, and at the very least, they insisted that exercisers modify workouts to make them easier on sick days. An article on CNN.com, although a year old (hence I may be behind the times), outlined a similar position on exercising when sick.
So now I know; running when I’m feeling feverish will probably make me feel more feverish. Common sense—1. Strange and illogical myth that I believed for many years—0.
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