Becoming a Gluten Free Athlete with Socca Tuna Melt

Motivation comes in many forms. Some use the “I’m doing this so I don’t have to do it for the rest of my life” approach. Others use the “I’m doing this to make other people happy” approach. But I prefer the “I’m doing this for me” approach. I’m writing this blog for me, and hopefully to help others along the way.

I lost substantial weight my first semester in college. It was to prove to myself (and my ex-boyfriend at the time) that I was worth something, to feel better about myself, and to take my mind off the many changes coming my way. I went from weighing 140 lbs to about 118 lbs in a matter of a semester, a size 8 in pants to almost a size 0, and still I wasn’t happy. I think this is where my obsession with exercising and “healthy” eating truly began, and it’s taken the better part of four years of healing and patience and support to get where I am today.

My disordered eating wasn’t about food. It was about control. What I did or didn’t put into my mouth or how long and how often I exercised were the ways to make me feel like I ran my life. Change was always around the corner, but my body was for me to control and no one else could take that away from me. That was my logic, but really, what good came from it? If I felt it wasn’t okay for anyone else to go to bed hungry because they had no other choice, how was it okay for me to go to bed hungry when there was always a well-stocked kitchen downstairs? What was the point of eating healthy and working out every other day when it was never enough? Not only that, but when you limit your caloric intake and exercise, it’s not only illogical… it’s freaking dangerous.

I’m telling you this because of what happened this morning. IB and I went on a slow run this morning, less than half an hour and under two miles. When we finally came back, my face was a deep red; I was nauseous and had tunnel vision even after gulping down water. We decided it was best if I lay down, though after a few moments I started to shake convulsively. It went away, but he was still concerned. He’d been a runner for years and never experienced this before, so he started researching.

I’ve been working with Cheryl Harris for nutrition guidance and life enrichment since February this year. I can look back and happily say there is progress. I’m eating between 1500 and <1800 calories a day instead of having a panic attack if I eat more than 1200 (and yes, this included the days I exercised). I’m giving my body what it wants immediately when it asks for it. There are days when I’m still hungry after I’ve eaten dinner, typically when I have a late class and pack food for myself, and I no longer grudgingly feed myself until I’m no longer hungry.

I learned a new mantra, one that I can tell myself should insecurity rear its ugly head. “Food is the fuel that keeps me going, and not the anchor that weighs me down.” How's that for deep?

I'm NOT holding myself down anymore.

Maybe I felt that, since I wasn’t what I pictured to be an “Athlete,” I could eat normally and still work out like a gladiator. That is, one hour of aerobic exercise, about half an hour of weights and other gym machines, and I’m not even counting all the walking I do on campus. If I want to go to the gym three to five times a week, I need to make sure my body has the fuel to do it. That means sleeping a full eight hours a night, drinking water, getting the right vitamins, and yes, eating. Perhaps a year ago if the Burt-man asked me “Do you want to be strong and solid (implying the possibility of weight gain) or a ninety-eight-pound weakling?”, I would have had to think about it. If I was honest with myself, I would have likely preferred the latter because I felt I’d rather be thin (implying beauty) than muscled and "stocky". But I know better now.

Beauty is found in a happy self, a body that gets what it needs and never wants. I still have a long way to go, but I’m not the person I was four years ago trying to be something that others would like. The next time I speak to Cheryl, I will focus on the Gluten Free Athlete perspective, and what measures I need to take in order to embody this persona safely, effectively, and happily. Michelle and Lori of Pure2Raw seem to have this concept down to a science.

Oh! And I’ve discovered a new blog, The Gluten Free Athlete. Something tells me I’m going to be visiting it often. But for now, I have a socca recipe for you, one that I gobbled up gleefully post-run. High in healthy fats and carbohydrates, my body felt like new.

Socca Tuna Melt

1 Socca Recipe
1 slice Gouda cheese, quartered
1/4 c. Canned tuna in olive oil, drained of excess oil
1 heaping tbsp. Fresh salsa 
1/2 tsp. Dijon mustard

Prepare and cook the socca (like so) and place it under the broiler.
Thoroughly blend together the tuna, fresh salsa, and mustard.
Remove the socca from the oven, flip over, and lay out the cheese on one side.
Top the cheese with the tuna mixture and fold the other side on top (like you would an omelet).
Place it under the broiler once more until the cheese is melted.

Cut it in half and serve with sour cream, a small salad, and carrot juice.

Serves 1.

Loving Yourself: Chicken Pot Pie for One

I’ve been considering body image lately. Since last week I’ve pondered why there’s such an obsession with having the perfect body. I was sitting with Mama Dazz, talking about typical mother-daughter things until I spied old photos of me on her computer desk. In one photo, I must have been in fourth grade the time it was taken, as I was wearing the P.E. uniform for the school I had transferred to when my parents had separated. I was giving the peace sign along with two other kids in my class, and noticed something interesting. Despite my rounded face, I was similar in body to the fairly skinny girl on my right. The other photo was of me in fifth grade, with short hair and eating party sweets. That was the year puberty hit, and I was slightly fuller than the year before, but I wasn’t that big.

In a way, people are like cats...

“I wasn’t as big as I thought I was,” I mused, “and I was rather cute.”

“Oh, you were beautiful, Morri,” Mama Dazz replied. “You always were.”

Different breeds = different kinds of beauty.

Enter the flashback of my puberty years: Mama Dazz comforting while I cried, thinking I was ugly, fat, and stupid. She had this mantra that she would tell me every time this happened. She would hold me and tell me “It will get better… It will get better.” I tried to believe her, but it never set in, not really. I thought I was going to be fat and ugly and stupid forever.

I looked down at the photo of the smiling fourth grader that was me and I say out loud: “What happened?”

True, I wasn’t the healthiest kid. I was sick often, disliked exercise, and was a picky eater. But when puberty hit, and I was seemingly the only girl in class that was rounded and developing differently, I began comparing myself to the others. As far as I was concerned, if I were thin I would be liked. If I were thin I would be pretty. If I were thin the boys would ask me out. If I were thin I would be smart.

This is not how a fifth grader should be thinking.

Mama Dazz pointed something out to me that I thought was fascinating. From her generation to now women are more inwardly critical than they used to be. Meaning, we are more accepting of other women and how they look than we do with ourselves. What’s more, what we see in the mirror isn’t what other people see. Our reflections are so distorted that it takes a photograph from years ago to point out just how beautiful you actually were.

I for one believe there is no such thing as the ideal body type. From the toned and angular athlete to the curvaceous plus-sized babe, from the lanky gamer to the Buddha with a cherub face, there is beauty in every person.

True beauty is loving yourself in every sense of the word, making sure you are happy, healthy, and whole. You don’t have to squeeze into a size 2 to be considered attractive, or have muscles bulging through your clothes. 

I admit I have these relapses where I look in the mirror and nitpick at my “imperfections”. I sometimes say to myself, “Just a few more inches… Just a few more pounds… If only I were taller… If only…” Why, just this morning as I was shopping for skirts and dresses for the spring and summer weather, I ended up putting the majority of back because of this type of thinking. And though I felt I looked amazing in the things I did buy, I was frustrated because I didn’t find what I was looking for.

Clothes don’t make the person, and neither does the flesh or fat. The frustration I was experiencing wasn’t in regards to the skirts I tried on; rather, it was because I was timid and uncomfortable wearing them. For years I’ve been balancing what it meant to be a woman in today’s world, for if I was too feminine I wasn’t strong and if I was too masculine I wasn’t a woman. I chose masculinity for power and strength and muscle because it was the safer route. I could compete with men in a way that I couldn’t with women. As a result, I lost a part of myself. And that part of me rather liked dressing up in frilly things.

So ladies and gentleman, I cannot stress this enough. It is time to take a stand and revolutionize the way we look at ourselves, and the way children and adults alike feel about their bodies.

If someone hasn’t told you this today, let me be the first: You. Are. Beautiful.

Chicken Pot Pie for One

For the filling

3 Frozen chicken tenderloin pieces

5 Heirloom tomatoes (or 5 cherry or 1 Roma), halved

1 Carrot, cut into smallish chunks

1 Celery stalk, coarsely chopped

1/2 Small white onion, finely diced

1/2 Orange bell pepper, sliced thinly and cut into chunks

1/3 c. Frozen petite peas

2 Cloves garlic, coarsely chopped

1/4 tsp. Sea salt

1/4 tsp. Pepper

1 tsp. Arrowroot starch

For the crust

1/2 c. Cooked Arborio rice

1 Egg

1/2 tsp. Baking powder

2 tsp. Glutinous rice flour

Preheat the oven to 350°F.

Put the ingredients for the filling (not including the arrowroot startch) into a saucepan over medium heat with water just skimming the top.

Once the chicken is just cooked, cut into small pieces and place back in the pan.

Cook for one hour on medium-low heat.

Drain all of the liquid from the pan (there shouldn’t be a lot, but I recommend saving it for another recipe), and use 1/4 c. of the stock to make a rue with the arrowroot starch.

Pour back into the pot and cook on medium-low for fifteen minutes.

While that is cooking, add into a mixing bowl the ingredients for the crust until thoroughly combined.

In an oven-safe bowl (one you won’t mind eating out of), pour in the filling first and then add the crust on top.

Bake for thirty minutes or when the crust is completely cooked through.

Serves 1.