247

Two. Four. Seven.

james

Losing weight gets personal…

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Two. Four. Seven… as in 247, or more specifically, 247 pounds. That’s how much I weighed on March 16, 1997. That was the day I got out of the U.S. Marine Corps. I weighed 247 pounds with 15.7% body fat. It’s hard to believe that was 18 years ago. How does one go about rewinding 18 years? Well, since getting back to my last Marine Corps weight of 247 pounds is my goal, that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Like a lot of kids, my childhood was a myriad of phases where I was at times thin, chubby, lanky, lean, muscular, and athletic. It wasn’t until I became a teenager that I started to become self-aware and very self-conscious about it. When I look at pictures of myself during high school, I see an athletic teenager. What I remember feeling about myself during those years, was a very awkward and self-conscious kid. I ended up getting a football scholarship and played for a couple of years before joining the Marine Corps. Even in college, when I was in the best shape of my life up to that point, I remember being very self-conscious about my body. Then, I joined the Marine Corps.

I weighed 233 pounds and was in excellent football shape when I shipped off to Parris Island, South Carolina for boot camp. Three months later I graduated at a very thin, and impossible to maintain, 197 pounds. I lost 36 pounds during three months of boot camp in the swamps of Parris Island. I was in the best shape of my life. For the first time ever, I wasn’t self-conscious about my body. I felt like I could fly. It was a good but very unfamiliar feeling.

Throughout my five years in the Marine Corps, my weight constantly fluctuated between 210 and 230 pounds depending on where I was stationed, whether I was in school or working, how much I worked out, etc. Although I was in the best shape of my life, I was oftentimes singled-out and made consciously aware that I exceeded the Marine Corps weight standards (214-pound maximum allowed) for my height of 6’2”. Even though I was always in the top ten percent of finishers for Physical Fitness Tests (PFT), because of my larger build, I was always required to have a weight waiver. I found this extremely annoying since I was below the 18% maximum allowed body fat percentage, was an outstanding Marine, and played by the rules.

About a month before I got out of the Marine Corps, there were a few times when I was required to attend remedial Physical Training (PT) sessions based solely on my weight instead of my physical conditioning. The real reason it happened was because my Gunnery Sergeant at the time had it out for me. He and I had never gotten along and everyone knew it.  The remedial PT sessions were useless for me as they were tailored for Marines who were either injured and recovering or who had serious fitness deficiencies. Besides, I was a gym rat who spent most of my free time playing basketball, football, or working out simply because I enjoyed it. I remember one instance when my Gunny made me attend remedial PT at 5 in the morning. I was not a happy camper. The following week, as we finished the first mile of our annual three-mile PFT run, I yelled, “You got this gunny!” while I passed him. He nodded in acknowledgement and let out a half-assed “oorah!” before realizing it was me. I easily outweighed him by 40 pounds, could complete the three-mile PFT run faster than him, and I was the one who needed remedial PT?  What a piece of shit I thought.

I don’t know if it was purely out of spite or if it was because I knew I was getting out soon and the rebel in me wanted to prove a point, but the last couple of months I was in the Marine Corps, I decided to see just how much weight I could gain before getting out. I ate anything and everything and spent all of my free time in the gym lifting, heavy. Well, I gained about 15 pounds and ended up getting out at 247 pounds at 15.7% body fat. Not too shabby… mission accomplished.

After getting out of the Marine Corps and two months of being unemployed, I began my career as a contractor/consultant. My level of physical activity dropped from an average of two-three hours a day to less than one. Within two years I gained nearly 60 pounds. I still frequented the gym and lifted but my cardio was nonexistent.  I ballooned to 306 pounds at my heaviest.  A very unhealthy 306 pounds. I was drinking large, white chocolate mochas twice a day, eating like a horse, and doing zero cardio. I let myself go. I stayed between 285-300 pounds for about ten years before fully realizing just how unhappy I was with how I felt and looked.

Over the past five or six years, I gradually began working out again, did more cardio, and generally tried to stay more active. I even managed to get my weight down into the 250s a couple of times (temporarily) but it usually hovered between 260 and 270. I was 272 pounds when I started culinary school last year and about five pounds lighter when I graduated this year (seems counterintuitive after spending the last year in the kitchen).  I’ve never gotten down into the 240s again.  At least not yet…

So, 247 pounds is my goal. I have more than a few pounds to go.  I should say, that’s my first goal. Perhaps, depending on how I feel once I get there, I may take it a step further and shoot for my pre-boot camp weight of 233 pounds. Perhaps…

Wish me luck and I’ll keep you posted on my progress!

James

James's Kitchen

Pesto

james

Ingredients: fresh basil, garlic, toasted pine nuts, parmesan cheese, sea salt, pepper (opt), and extra virgin olive oil.

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I usually make fresh, homemade pesto about twice a year. I make a fairly large batch, divide it into small containers, and freeze all of them except for the one I’m currently using. This way, I alway have pesto on hand when I want it. There’s something about fresh, homemade pesto that’s just like the jingle for Pringles, “Once you pop, you can’t stop.” Once I taste fresh pesto, I simply can’t get enough of it and I find myself attempting to come up with creative ways to eat it with all of my meals. The unmistakable smell and flavor of basil, combined with the warm welcome of toasted pine nuts, the spicy tang of garlic, the one-of-a-kind nutty flavor of parmesan cheese, and the richness of good olive oil with just the right amount of sea salt, are exactly what makes pesto so damn irresistible.

James

James's Kitchen

Porcini Pasta w/Tomatoes, Peppers, and Parmesan

james

Ingredients: extra virgin olive oil, onion, red pepper, garlic, cherry tomatoes, red pepper flakes, salt, pepper, heavy cream, whole grain penne, porcini mushrooms, parmesan cheese, and chopped parsley or basil.

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Today was the day I finally used the tiny package of dehydrated porcini mushrooms that has scowled at me every time I opened the door to my pantry over the past few months. I’m so glad I did. I was worried they might have gone bad but they turned out to be anything but. This was the first time I’d ever used whole, dehydrated mushrooms for anything. I had bought them almost as a novelty item since I couldn’t find porcini powder and thought there must be something I could use them for. Immediately upon opening the puffed-up, air-filled package they came in, my nose was overwhelmed by their pungent, sweet, and earthy aroma. Expecting them to be stale, I was shocked at how good they smelled and felt irritated that I had to rehydrate them for 30-60 minutes before I could even try one. The wait time was more than enough for me to bring the penne to al dente and to prep the other ingredients. After sweating the hell out of the onions and peppers in olive oil, I added the minced garlic, the cherry tomatoes, and the pepper flakes. A few more minutes in, I poured in the heavy cream and watched it take on the reddish hues of the peppers, tomatoes, and red pepper flakes. It was mouthwatering. Once the porcini mushrooms passed the 30 minute mark, I drained, rinsed, and dried them. Next, I lightly sautéed them in clarified butter. I can’t begin to describe how amazing my kitchen smelled at this point. It was as if the porcini mushrooms had awakened from a state of hibernation and were returning to life again. I added the mushrooms to the cream and veggies allowing the mixture to fully absorb the wonderful porcini flavor. After several minutes, I added the pasta. I served the dish topped with some freshly grated parmesan and chopped parsley. This was by far the best, and most flavorful, pasta dish I had ever made and it was all thanks to the tiny bag of dehydrated porcini mushrooms that sat neglected in my pantry for months.

James

Misc

A Safe Refuge

james

Finding refuge in Mother Nature…

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The wildlife refuge where I hunt is a large expanse of protected, forested land, spanning approximately fourteen thousand acres. It’s located in the midst of suburbs between Washington, D.C. and Baltimore, Maryland. It’s surprisingly well hidden, about two miles from my house (the way the crow flies), and most people don’t even know it’s there. The refuge permits a limited variety of outdoor activities during the different seasons that include biking, hiking, fishing, hunting, wildlife viewing, bird watching, etc. It is sectioned off by large puzzle-like pieces of land, divided by dirt and gravel roads, with each section being assigned a distinct letter (a, b, c, d, e, etc.). Some sections contain as little as a hundred acres and others are as large as a thousand acres. Some are wooded and covered with dense underbrush, some contain large grassy fields, some have creeks and streams, marshes and ponds, and others contain any combination of the three. During the hunting seasons, the number of hunters is limited to approximately one hunter for every twenty acres. That being the case, it’s extremely rare for me to see other hunters in the same area where I hunt. In essence, when I’m in the refuge, I literally feel as if I could just as easily be thousands of miles away in the middle of a fictional forest and I love it.

There is one particular section of the refuge that is my favorite. It’s one of the smaller ones and contains a little over two hundred acres. It’s bordered by a small river to the south, includes a large grassy field covering about a third of the section, has a large pond in it, a small stream, a large marshy area, is flat in some areas, hilly in others, and is bordered to the west by an endangered species and protected habitat sanctuary. While I’ve spent time in several of the other sections on the refuge, the reason this particular one is my favorite, is because it contains a little bit of everything. If I want to spend the day squirrel watching in the woods I can. If I want to spend the day watching ducks alight on, and take flight from, the pond, I can. If I want to watch a fox or a raccoon as they make their way along the muddy banks of the river or streams, I can. If I want to patiently wait in hopes of spotting a troupe of turkeys as they glide like ghosts through the conifers, I can. During the colder, winter months when I’m hunting and the temperatures fall beneath freezing, I can make my way to the higher elevations on the northern side where the sun continues to shine for over an hour longer than in the wooded, southern sections.

During the summer and early autumn months when the trees are still blanketed with leaves and the vines are still climbing ever-higher from the forest floor to the tree tops, when the spider webs are fully displayed in their majestic beauty, the refuge is a vibrant and lively ecosystem. As the end of fall nears and winter approaches, the forest begins to change. It’s hardly noticeable at first, yet, the wildlife responds in kind. Their daily routines must be adjusted as their ample, summer food supplies begin to dwindle. Squirrels rustle about playfully, while at the same time, tirelessly and instinctively bury prized acorns that will keep them alive during the cold winter months. The thick, green grasses of the spring and summer fields are now golden in hue. Tree leaves, no longer green, have repainted the forest canvas in bright oranges, reds, purples, browns, and yellows. The green forest vines have begun to dry up. The few leaves they once had, have fallen to the forest floor. Amazingly colorful spiders can now be seen floating with hopeful anticipation in the middle of their webs. Once hidden behind leaves and underbrush, they are now exposed to the elements with nowhere to hide. The intricate patterns and designs of their skillful weaving, no longer secrets. Yet they continue day after day, building and rebuilding their webs, rain or shine, in warm and cold weather alike, merely for the chance to survive. The forest and all of its creatures have adapted. Whatever the season, spring, summer, fall, or winter, the cycle of life continues, all on display for the observant world to see.

It’s like I have my own private forest when I’m out there. All is well with nature. I have spent many days getting there before dawn, in the dark, and leaving after the sun has set, in the dark. It’s an awe-inspiring experience entering the forest early in the morning before the fog begins to lift, in pitch-black darkness, and without being able to see your hand in front of your face. The creatures of the forest are quiet, still resting. There are no birds chirping or singing; no squirrels playfully rustling about; no deer grazing on fallen acorns; no foxes trotting along the edges of fields looking for prey; no hawks soaring overhead. All is quiet. The only sounds I hear are my breath and my footsteps as I futilely attempt to silently make my way to one of my favorite hunting spots. I imagine, how obtrusive my foreign footsteps must sound to the forest dwellers as I clumsily intrude upon their peaceful world, home, and safe refuge.

For me, the refuge has become just that. It’s a personal refuge where I can escape the hustle and bustle of everyday life. In a world where I am constantly on the go, sitting in bumper to bumper traffic, working to meet deadlines, tending to both personal and professional responsibilities, I always know there’s a well-hidden and safe place nearby where I can go to get away from it all. It’s a place where I can put everything else on pause and simply escape… my safe refuge.

James

James's Kitchen

My Biannual Craving for Eggs Benedict

james

When the craving for eggs benedict comes, there’s no resisting it…

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Anyone who really knows me knows I love eggs.  I could eat eggs every day and with every meal in some form or another.  Eggs have always been a staple of my diet.  Whether scrambled, fried, over easy, hard boiled, soft boiled, poached, etc., I can’t remember a single time when I turned down, or was disappointed with, the opportunity to eat eggs. My love for eggs comes from growing up on a farm in southern Kentucky where we raised chickens, geese, and sometimes ducks, for both eggs and meat.  Not only did we raise them, we also grew attached to them as they were an integral part of our farm family.  As part of our morning chores before school, I remember raiding the chicken coops where we would gather fresh, warm, and colorful eggs.  These were not the white and perfectly sized eggs that most people are familiar with.  These were real deal, honest-to-goodness, farm eggs.  Rarely white, they came in a variety of brown earth-tones, oftentimes speckled, and typically had remnants of Mother Nature’s residue still on them.  This daily and delicate egg-gathering ritual wasn’t without its hazards as there was inevitably a couple of young, strutting roosters that thought they’d come of age on any given morning and would try to flog us out of the coop.  Then there were the hens…  while most of the them were cooperative during our egg-swiping rounds, there was the constant threat from some of the cutest and seemingly most innocent-looking hens that would let you get your hand right up and into their nests while pretending to be asleep, before launching a vicious surprise attack at it as if your hand was an egg-eating snake.  Those hens were the ones I secretly hoped would soon find their way onto the darkly stained tree stump in front of the barn where the thin end of Señor Hatchet patiently awaited his next victim.  To this day, the eggs we harvested back on the farm when I was a boy, are far and away the best eggs I’ve ever eaten.  Simply put, nothing beats the rich flavor of fresh farm eggs.

A couple of weeks ago, while in the middle of poaching upwards of 75 eggs for brunch and holding them in ice water while waiting for service, a kitchen passerby noticed the large plastic lexan filled with dozens of jellyfish-like, white globs suspended beneath the icy surface and asked, “What’s that mess?”  After I told him they were poached eggs for brunch, he proceeded to tell me how he didn’t like eggs, had never liked them, and didn’t understand how people could eat them.  A little surprised initially, I immediately went on the offensive on behalf of eggs explaining their flexibility of uses and how I could and would eat them anytime and anyplace.  Shortly after he left the kitchen, I wondered why I felt so compelled to defend the egg with such vigor.  I felt offended, as if he had said something about a member of my family.  I also  felt sorry for him because I couldn’t imagine life without the constant and comforting presence of eggs.  Clearly, he had no idea what he was missing out on, and I was certain he had never experienced the irresistible, silky-smooth, golden yolk of a perfectly poached egg intermixed with rich, handmade, buttery-lemony hollandaise sauce, complete with a tinge of cayenne, resting tantalizingly atop a warm, salty, sweet, slice of Canadian bacon and toasted English muffin.  Clearly, he had no idea…

After spending the last year in culinary school where we used eggs practically every day and in everything from one end of the culinary spectrum to the other, such as sauces, appetizers, salads, quiche, main entrées, doughs, crusts, custards, desserts, etc., I came away with a renewed appreciation for them.  With that said, there comes a time, about twice a year, when I get an intense craving for eggs benedict.  It’s probably a good thing it only happens twice a year because my cholesterol could stand to be lowered some as it is.  I’ve always enjoyed eggs benedict, but after learning to make real hollandaise in culinary school, I have a whole new level of respect for the dish.  Now that I can make it myself, I’m hesitant to order it at some restaurants for fear of being disappointed.  It’s not the easiest or quickest thing to make, but it’s well worth the time and effort when done right.  For the past few days I’ve been craving it and it finally came to a head this morning when I opened the refrigerator and realized I was out of milk and that my normal, convenient options for breakfast were no longer options. What I did have plenty of though… was eggs.  Presented with the opportunity to practice my hollandaise-making skills while at the same time satisfying my craving for eggs benedict, how could I resist?  Several hundred, delicious calories later, my craving was satisfied.  At least for the moment, because I’m certain that just like clockwork and within a few months time, my craving for eggs benedict will return, and when that happens well, there’s simply no resisting the power of the almighty egg.

James