Mom's Apple Day

Strawberry tarts—each one topped with half of a big, glazed berry, pointy end up—were lined up like soldiers in the Red Queen’s army behind the glass counter at Health Bread Bakery. I would gaze at the perfect, shiny tarts and pester my mother to buy me some. Sometimes she did, but other times I heard “Your eyes are bigger than your stomach” as she turned her attention back to the clerk to order a triple-kimmel rye, sliced thin. I had a habit of craving the pretty foods and then losing interest in them after a bite or two. As lovely as the tarts were, they actually weren’t very good. The strawberries were large but essentially tasteless, with a cottony texture, and the gelatin glaze that smothered them had often been applied too thickly – it would fall off in one pink clot before you could get the whole berry into your mouth. I was partial to the sweet custard filling (I can still taste it as I write this) and the slightly damp cookie crust. I was also enchanted by the tiny silver tin and wondered if it could be transformed into something glitzy for my Barbie.
 
Serious, healthy food was very important in our family. Square meals were typically composed of a meat protein, some kind of starch (usually potato but sometimes rice) and a vegetable (frequently cauliflower or carrots). Wholesome, yes. Poetic, no. The sheer boredom of a never-ending parade of beige and brown at every supper turned me into a terribly fussy eater. I couldn’t find the words then, but what I was missing was not vitamins, minerals and amino acids but something fanciful. Finally, it occurred to me that I could create my own food stories. During one period, I pretended that I was on a desert island where the only nourishment was celery. So I devoured every part – the stalk, the leaves, the roots – with gusto because, as a castaway, who knows when I would eat again? Then, for a time, I was a horse and ate only uncooked oatmeal from a bowl that was placed on the carpet next to the dining room table. I could only tolerate drinking cold milk if it was served in a crystal goblet so I could pretend it was some kind of exotic cocktail. My poor parents! Yet, somehow, with all my new eating habits – based on thrilling narratives, not Canada’s Food Guide – I managed to get through my childhood without contracting scurvy, rickets or other diseases of malnutrition. As with many things, I now appreciate my mother’s cooking more, especially her flavourful soups. Though I follow her recipes, I have yet to achieve that transcendent moment when, after the first spoonful, all your taste buds immediately pop open. Perhaps she’s withholding as payback for the tortures I put her through at the table?
 
My mother’s pragmatic approach to food has remained consistent for the last seven decades. She has never gone on a diet to lose weight or banished a food as being “bad,” no matter what the fad. Several times a year, without any fanfare whatsoever, my mother has an “apple day.” Nothing but apples for 24 hours. This is her instinctual way of giving her body a rest. Today, many people feel they must do a “master cleanse” extended fast or have tubes inserted into their rectums for high-colonics. Whether we really are that toxic is open to debate. The liver is a remarkable organ, and it is quite efficient at ridding the body of irksome compounds. However, periodically stepping away from the table is an excellent idea to maintain good health, and spring is the ideal season to do it. During the winter months, things do build up in our bodies, making us feel heavy or sluggish, but the cold prevents them from being released properly. Warmer weather gets things flowing again, making this an excellent time for a light cleanup. Taking a page from my mom’s book, nothing dramatic is required. For a day or two, simply stick to a mild mono-diet of a light vegetable or chicken soup, for example. The weekend is perfect for this because it’s easier to clear your calendar and use it as an overall rest period. You are guaranteed to feel much lighter and brighter afterwards. And, if you make this a seasonal routine, your body – like my mom’s – will still kill at 78.