What IS a normal portion?

American portions have thoroughly corrupted my gastronomical happiness. While killing time before seeing the new Pirates flick, a couple of friends and I had dinner at a tapas place. We each ordered two of the Spanish appetizers, mine consisting of a generous piece of bread topped with tomato paste, Serrano ham and drizzled with olive oil, and a small spinach and cheese omelet. The Serrano ham and bread was bursting with flavor; the omelet, regrettably, not as much. Needless to say, even though we rejected the waiter’s offer of the dessert menu, I found myself wondering if I had eaten enough. There had to be something wrong with that picture; after all, I was leaving a restaurant sans either a doggy bag or an enormously stuffed stomach. I considered stopping for some ice cream as we meandered our way to the theater, but ultimately decided against it. As I was driving home, I realized I was still comfortably full from the seemingly minuscule meal, not overstuffed but certainly not hungry.

In that instant, I realized how messed up our way of eating truly is. I cannot remember the last time I walked out of a restaurant not feeling like there was a hundred pound brick sitting in my stomach. And this isn’t just true for American food restaurants; almost every ethnic eatery I exit leaves me feeling the same. I realized I don’t actually know what normal full feels like. Usually, I stop eating when my plate is clean, which, more often than not, also coincides with the time I physically cannot eat anymore. And this is coming from a girl of normal weight who (despite my previous post) does get some daily exercise. If I, as a fit, healthy individual, do not know when my body is naturally full, NO WONDER we have an obesity crisis in this country.

Running

I don’t know why I do it. Run, I mean. I used to be so good at it: In seventh grade, my mile was around 8 minutes and I was the fastest girl in our class. Needless to say, those days are long gone. Anyways, I woke up this morning (and yes, this time it actually was morning) and decided to go for a run, since all the ice cream I ate for dessert last night made me worry my heart was going to explode without warning. So laced up my sneakers and set out through the various neighborhood streets surrounding mine. I eventually looped my way back home and dragged my wiped-out body into the shower.

(If you couldn’t tell, I’m not the greatest fan of working out.)

Stupid exercise, I thought to myself as the soothing streams of water drained away the muscle cramps, I don’t see how people actually enjoy it. I understand the appeal of a pickup game of driveway hoops or a neighborhood softball game, but exerting yourself on a metal contraption that looks more like a death trap than a fat burner? Beats me. I may hate the gym, but I still go. Or at least I did. I knew I had no excuse not to back when I lived a mere 90-second walk from the campus gym. But ever since I moved across campus my gym attendance took a nosedive. Hey, don’t blame me; our campus is large and hilly and I had an internship and classes to balance. I had laundry to do and dinner to make. And did I mention all the hills?

The doctor laughed at me when I told her this at my annual checkup. “Trust me,” she said, “it doesn’t get any easier in the future, so you better learn to make time for exercise.” Okay fine, so let’s say I make time for it. I still hate it. It just so, well, painfully boring. Listening to my ipod is not enough to occupy my mind while on the elliptical or the treadmill (which by the way I eternally despise,) and all that bobbing up and down doesn’t let me read properly. I suppose T.V. would work, but the campus gym doesn’t have any in the cardio room. Adding to my exercise complaints, I generally overexert myself and keep running faster and faster long after my legs are screaming at me to stop, which may not necessarily be the best approach to take while working out.

The treadmill always left me feeling like a gerbil, trapped and going nowhere, so I tried running on the track. However, running in circles didn’t necessarily do much to convince me I was actually going somewhere, so I decided to give running outside a shot. Yeah, so far I’ve tried that twice and hated it both times. Looks like I’ll just have to figure out a new, more complicated way to burn calories (and give up on that dream of running a marathon.) (Hah, as if I ever actually thought I could run one in the first place.)

"The Diary of Ma Yan"

The other day I was wandering through the house trying to find something to do when I happened upon a book entitled “The Diary of Ma Yan.” This touching translation of a thirteen-year-old girl’s daily struggle to balance her studies with life in one of China’s poorest villages was a jarring reminder of just how differently the rest of the world lives. According to the UN Development Program’s 2006 annual Global partnership for development report, “The poorest 40 percent of the world’s population – the 2.5 billion people who live on less than $2 a day – account for five percent of global income, while the richest 10 percent account for 54 percent.” Can you imagine that? More than half of the world’s income goes to just 600 million people. Now, I’m not about to go on a tirade against capitalism or anything like that, but carving out your niche in this world shouldn’t happen at the expense of leaving others so far behind.

I’m not sure whether my family falls under that 10 percent bracket but I do know my life is far more comfortable than that of many others around the world. My biggest worries usually revolve around catching up with assigned reading before an exam and figuring out what my weekend plans are. And while my education is certainly important to me, I’ve never really questioned its presence. It’s always been a given that I would work hard in school, go to college, move on to graduate school and then land a rewarding, high-paying job. While I haven’t necessarily reached that dream job pinnacle just yet, life without education has been a non-sequitur. It’s not that I don’t work hard – my 4.0 is a testament to that – but I’ve never realized just how lucky I am to be able to devote myself fully to school. I don’t have the burden of helping to sustain a family; I’ve got no crops to harvest or drinking water to collect; I’m not even responsible for financing my own education (thank God for parents).

While reading the book I was most struck by the fact that in almost every entry Ma Yan reminded herself how important her education was and chided herself for not trying harder. Schooling wasn’t just the key to broadening her own future; more importantly education would enable her to one day give her parents and hopefully grandparents the comfortable lives they so deserved. And the fact that she wrote these words in her personal diary, not in a self-help manual intended to be read by millions of eyes, makes it so much more profound.

Reading her diary, I felt ashamed that all I do is complain about school. I whine about how much work there is to do, rail on about how I hate some class, procrastinate until the wee hours of the morning and proceed to repeat how tired I am the next day. I realized I should just suck it up and deal with it because so many young people out there would do anything to have the opportunities I have.

And I know I’m not the only one. Too many of us forget how lucky we are to have what we do. We forget to thank our parents for everything they do for us and be grateful for the fact that our daily problems involve negotiating traffic and deciding what to make for dinner. I couldn’t imagine living in a place where I had to walk twelve miles through rocky hillsides to get to school or where my mom had to grit her teeth and pick fa cai while suffering from a stomach ulcer.

Halfway through the book I stopped and looked at the dates of the entries, trying to remember what I was doing when she wrote these vignettes. With a jolt I realized that Ma Yan and I are the same age. While I was in middle school, freely enjoying my passing childhood, she was writing these words, words that began as an explanation of her days but eventually became a poignant look at impoverished yet determined youth. I admire her so much, willing to give her private diaries to a stranger in the hopes that he share them with the rest of the world. I was happy to read that the stranger, French journalist Pierre Haski, not only shared them but helped start the Association for the Children of Ningxia to help others pay for their education. It’s thanks to people like Ma Yan and her courage and perseverance that my generation will not only help address many of the world’s most pressing issues, but will welcome the challenge to do so. I wish her the best of luck in all of her future endeavors; I’m sure this won’t be the last we’re hearing of Ma Yan, not by a longshot.

Sin #4: Sloth

Ahh, so that’s what slumber feels like. I had forgotten what it was like to sleep for more than five hours at a time. Looking back, I really don’t know how I survived last semester; my internship was 10 hours short of a full-time job and I still had a full course load and an ongoing research project to attend to. I know what you’re thinking, Big deal young woman, you just wait til you enter the real world. Then you’ll learn the meaning of busy. But hey, you try going from starting class at 1 pm one semester to being at work at 8 am the next. Yes, I know, my life is so difficult.

Naturally, since break started, I’ve been catching up on my zzs, blissfully dreaming away the nights (and the mornings, for that matter.) But is there such a thing as too much sleep? (College-age males need not answer.) Yesterday was the only day I woke up at a decent time (10 am); all other days it’s been the afternoon sun greeting my tired eyes. This whole waking up late thing is really starting to irritate me. My days feel so short, and come midnight, when I tell myself I should try to go to bed, I cannot, for the life of me, fall asleep. I lie there for at least an hour, flipping and flopping every which way, trying to coax my overactive mind to settle down and focus on winning the impending war with the alarm. But I just can’t help it: The fluffy pillows, the soft blankets, the oh-so-comfy bed. Oh boy, I only woke up two hours ago, but I feel a nap coming on…

Detail Oriented - except when it counts

I recently had to write an autobiographical paragraph that included a fun fact. I couldn't really think of anything extraordinary, so I included a line about how I'm developing an interest in cooking. Now, for the most part, this is true - I watch quite a bit of Food Network and would like to someday be a good cook. But, as evidenced by the pretty sad dinners I have eaten in weeks past, this desire isn't exactly at the top of my list. (The ultimate culinary low point came when one night my dinner consisted of a cooked Boca burger patty, chopped into pieces and rolled into a tortilla with some salsa. It was grand). I'd had high hopes when I finally moved into the apartment. Oh, the joy of having my own microwave, sink and stove. Never again would I be forced to down the drab campus dining hall food three times a day.

But then of course, real life intervened and as I progressed further into the semester, my dreams of becoming America's next superstar chef slid to the back burner. Just as any other typical college student, my meals ended up consisting mostly of boxed pasta or leftovers from home. Essentially, I was paying hundreds of dollars a month for the privilege of using a microwave. But next year, my friends will be moving in and we'll be having dinner parties and bake-offs every week. No really, we will. I promise.

Now that I'm home for break though, I really do want to give cooking a shot. And having Mom look over my shoulder is a lot easier than calling her every two minutes to ask what I should season the chicken with or how long to leave scrambling eggs on the stove. But every time I get ready to cook something, it all just seems like so much work. And everything in cooking is so...precise. Now don't get me wrong, details are important. If there's only one thing I've taken away from all my journalism classes, its that you can never proofread something enough times. So trust me, I do pay attention to all the little things. Except when it comes to "tsp" vs. "tbsp." I mean, are they really that different? And before you get ready to slap me in the head with your spatula, I learned the hard way that yes, there actually is a difference between the two. Once, I was helping my dad make pancakes, and the Bisquick box said that for fluffier pancakes, add 1 tsp. of baking soda (or was it baking powder. Whatever; they're the same thing anyways) Of course, I misread it and put in 1 tbsp. Needless to say, the pancakes' burnt taste was not a result of being overcooked. So there you have it - my first food flub. Trust me, it hasn't been the last.

Anyways, Mom came home from the grocery store this evening with one of those no-bake cheesecake boxes. So I figured, this should be easy enough, I mean, I don't even need to use any large appliances to make this (save the refrigerator). So, I followed the directions and mixed in the 2 tbsp (yes I made sure they were tablespoons this time) of sugar and the 5 tbsp of margarine with the graham cracker crust powder. But as I was mixing, it became very clear that way too much butter had found its way into the bowl. Mom asked if I had measured the right amount, and yes I had counted out the spoons and I had definitely put in five. But were they exactly five tablespoons, she asked, Well, they weren't heaping tablespoons, I replied. But did I stand there and shave off the excess margarine until the spoon was perfectly filled. Well, no. I mean, I had always just heaped tablespoons of margarine into the boxed macaroni and cheese (another dinner staple last semester), and it always tasted fine. But clearly, similar tactics do not work with no-bake cheesecake. So, I took a paper towel and absorbed all the excess butter after I laid the crust in the pan. And then I took extra care in measuring out exactly 1.5 cups of milk for the cheesecake mix. I squatted down to be eye level with the measuring cup and everything. And did the thing come out tasting pretty good, Well, yes. I mean, come on. I'd have to be a complete imbecile to mess up no-bake cheesecake any worse than I already had. But what have I learned? Once again, death lies in the details. Just as you can't rely on spell check to catch every error, you can't rely on your eyes to give you five tablespoons.

Welcome to my blog

So I’ve been going back and forth on the whole blogging thing for quite some time now. This is my third attempt at keeping a blog (clearly I’m only a bit indecisive about the entire concept). I don’t deny their importance in today’s society – you’d have to be living under a rock to think blogs are just a passing phenomenon. It’s true, blogs represent the true democratization of society; anyone with access to an internet connection is now free to post their thoughts on politics, philosophy, society or, everyone’s favorite subject, themselves. But that “fifteen minutes of fame” mentality that has driven so many millions of people around the world to keep blogs is exactly what has prevented me from doing the same.

Now, if you ask any of my friends or family, they’ll be the first to tell you that I love to talk, to be the center of attention, to tell everyone what I did that day. But when it comes to taking the next step and putting it all online, that’s when I become silent. I don’t know, the idea of posting my thoughts up on the web, free for anyone to see, is a bit intimidating. (I know, because I’ve got such a loyal audience just waiting obediently to devour my next post). I mean, I love to write and do believe I’ve got some relevant things to say. But looking around at the number of people who have been burned by technology’s uncanny ability to track and record one’s every move, it’s no wonder I’ve thought twice about keeping a blog. (Think Mark Foley and his email trail, the DC Madam and her phone records, the many people who have been arrested/not hired based on their MySpace or Facebook profiles). Unlike the generations before us, people nowadays are held accountable for every single thing they say, do, or, most importantly, post. As Thomas Friedman said in The World is Flat, “Live your life honestly, because whatever you do, whatever mistakes you make, will be searchable one day.” So clearly, I’ve been a bit wary of the whole concept. What if I post something on this blog, and then twenty years later, when I’m running for president, it comes back to bite me in the butt. (Don’t laugh, that actually has been a big reason why I’ve refrained from participating in this blogging business).

Then of course, there’s the privacy aspect. How many times have we switched on the news (actually, clicked on the news is more like it) and seen the photograph of another young person who was lured by an online predator. I mean, how much information is too much information? How can you really post your thoughts without giving away some amount of personal information?

I’ve also come to realize that some of this hesitation is just cultural for me. Here in American society, it’s acceptable for people to publicly admit they suffer from depression or freely talk about a one-night stand. However, in Indian culture, it is still an unspoken rule that dirty laundry is not to be aired, as the saying goes. I’m not saying this is right; some would argue that the ability to talk about an issue is the first step to solving it. But personally, I don’t really like to discuss difficult subjects with other people. It’s taken a long time for me to feel comfortable sharing my deepest thoughts with my closest friends. I’m still shocked sometimes at some of the information I see posted on various blogs, but hey, if someone feels comfortable sharing their secrets with the world, more power to them. But don’t expect to see that kind of stuff here. Nope, over the past two years, I’ve learned a lot about the way the world works, and those lessons are what I plan on posting. So, welcome to my blog. I hope you enjoy it (Quite frankly, I’m just happy you’re reading it).