The Smell of Sickness

bog_of_eternal_stench

The human sense of smell is often seen as insignificant, dismissed as a distant also-ran to our keen eyesight or sensitive hearing. But this sense is keener and more influential on our species than many people realize. (“The Hidden Power of Scent” by Josie Glausiusz, in Scientific American Mind, August/September 2008:38)

 

I decided on a little adventure! I was excited enough to be up at the same time as the ravens, and into a bowl of ground nuts with a handful of walnuts, a dob of raw sheep yogurt and a glass of home-brewed Illy coffee. Then I was away.

Blissfully unaware that I was to have a shocker of a realization before the early part of the afternoon. People! I’m a dog in a human body!

Okay, let me explain. I drove for 2 hours this morning for the Portarlington Celtic Festival. I got myself lost (that happens a LOT) so I didn’t arrive in town until I was ravenous. The air was clean, the sea, oh, the tang of the sea right up from the deep of the ocean. A short boat trip away from Tasmania, New Zealand and, really, the great Antarctic! Me? Straight to a cafe for eggs and coffee. That was fine. So far, I’m excited…

And everything’s fine.

I cross the road to the park. The major gathering of clans performers, market stalls and food vans. Festive. Bagpipes. Kilts!

I wandered, studying the stalls for something magically Celtic to spend my money on, perfectly prepared to go home penniless. There was nothing. Nothing extraordinary. I wandered and I listened to the pipers but could not get a signal on my measly old iPhone 4 so I have nothing to show you of any of it… besides, I’m just starting to get weird.

I’ve been at the gig for almost an hour, passing families and couples, musicians on their way to somewhere and those kitted out in their most exotic faux Celtic wear, their brogues, their tartan socks and yes, there was a sporran or two, when I realize how fucking uncomfortable I am. I’m in the company of another species and they SMELL WRONG.

I’d been excited! I thought:

kilt sean connery

But I got:

kilts fat guys

This is NOT judgmental. The smell wafted stronger and stronger as the crowd swelled. I was a wastrel, an urchin, among the portly. And the obese. Other than several people passing me with instrument cases slung across their backs, 90% of the people were really, really fat. And not in a glorious fat way that some people are. Because some people are really, really big but whatever they eat, it just males them sexy and curvy. No.

This was organ fat and blocked intestines and bowels that had not worked well for decades. It was milk of magnesia and built-up intestinal gas. Parasites and gut microbiome that had devastated entire healthy inner ecosystems. The vans sold Cornish pasties and sugary drinks, and pastry this and bun-that, each slathered in barbecue sauce or tomato sauce. And the lines at each van were monumental. And everyone wandering, or sitting with their legs spread, on caving-in plastic chairs, or smiling, pretending that this was grand, had food in their faces.

bad fats1

Darlings, is this the unexpected price one pays for being amostpaleo? That one’s olfactory senses become sniffer-doggish? Could we work an airport customs baggage line, do you think?

I just had to attend.

Unfortunately, just this once, I had not thought ahead. I had not packed a snack. So I lined up and bought a cardboard container of char-grilled salmon (shut up about its toxicity) with slaw. I paid and was just about to grab my in-case food when the woman serving looked at me as though I was quite mad.
“What?” I asked, smiling.
“You forgot the sauce,” she said, bemused at my stupidity; my obvious senility.
“Oh. Um…”
“Mayonnaise, here…” and she took back my container, squirting copious quantities of home-made mayo over everything. “There!” she said, proudly, moving onto her next victim.

I made it to my car and placed the offending package on the passenger seat. You know. Just in-fucking-case?

And there it sat, burning my nostrils with no name brand, genetically modified sunflower oil all the way home.

All the way back to the city I contemplated. I realized, that like pheromones, our bodies emit entire scent stories. I won’t make that mistake again. But… I was REALLY SAD that almost all those people were sick. If they knew it, they hid it, if they didn’t know… No, they knew. We’re not talking kids here. None of the people I am discussing would have been under 40. Really sad how slowly they are going to die.

 

Other links here and here

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AGE SHAMING

Gosh, what to say! I’ve had a recent run-in with a guy who thought to shame me for being in ‘his’ gym… his final bastion of bloke-sweatiness. Despite having been in one or other of them since 1991. I’ve written an article for a mag about it ,so I won’t put it here yet. What I will say, is that if you’re a woman over 50 years old don’t carry goats uphill ,or walk three miles with a staff on their shoulders carrying a bucket of water at both ends, you’ll get osteoporosis. And it is NOT a thing. It comes from sedentary living. If you’re a man (in the understood parlance of an outdated dualist modality) tell me it’s different. I’m really interested!

gym with me and nila

Nila Chandra, there on the incline bench, is in her forties, is fabulous and now living in Bisbee, Arizona. That’s me on camera. Those are pectorals on my torso, not cleavage.

I have a new series coming up soon… a vlog on health, lifestyle, fitness and nutrition. Stay tuned…

In the meantime, chicken, walnuts, raw yogurt, broccoli and cauliflower puree. More meals and snacks to come. I’m simply overwhelmingly busy.

Check this out, though:

Lesson 17: Rock Your Age

FROM “FIT AND FIERCE OVER 40”
BY SADIE NARDINI


I’m 45 years old as I write this. Almost 46.

For some of you, that might seem really old. For others, you’re pshawing me right now because 45 is so young.

I can only speak for myself: This is the oldest I’ve ever been.

And sometimes it takes me aback.

I’m not one to pin all problems on “society”, but there is something to be said for living in America, where youth and perfection is plastered all over magazines, billboards and TV as the ideal.

Yes, it’s changing somewhat. But recent studies show that, for the majority of men polled in the US, even older men, the most attractive and desirable age for them is still 20 years old.

Not twenty-something.

Just out of high school, maybe in college. . ..twenty.

Don’t get me wrong. Twenty is as valuable and beautiful as thirty, forty, seventy. All ages are cool with me. Women and men, to me, are powerful and magical all life long.

We are often and simply not taught in this country how to age with empowerment, confidence, and grace.

It’s up to you, and me, to show how amazing and wild and self-confident and gorgeous any age can be.

So, this day is about caring for yourself deeply, and making sure you do your best to nurture your body, mind and spirit at all phases of your life. It’s also about the fact that we can’t stop time.

So from decade to decade–heck, from day to day sometimes–you have a choice to make.

Are you going to look in the mirror, notice your aging, or imperfections, and let them dim your shine?

Or are you going to stand up taller inside yourself, love yourself up more, smile big and walk through your day like you own it? Which you can, anytime you choose.

Time waits for no one. But you can stop waiting to go out there and rock who you are. . .just as you are. If you’re twenty, rock twenty (and sorry about those age-inappropriate guys). If you’re eighty, rock eighty like you’re onstage with Led Zeppelin!

Age duuna count

AGE DUNNA COUNT

Kindness is so easy.

 

Visiting Dear Daughts in hospital today for a routine gall bladder procedure. A woman, I’ll call her Jane Doe, is in the other bed in the ward, suffering from a really intense gastric infection. She’s seriously obese. She’s gorgeous. She’s sad. She’s alone for ages and not talking to anyone. Eating the crappy whatever-it-is that passes for a sandwich.

Daughts is so lovely and made Jane smile. Laugh. When I came to visit, daughter and I clowned around a bit, drank coffee, chatted and included Jane. She an I got talking. She has Type 2 diabetes, high blood pressure and some kind of helplessness I don’t know about. She has a husband, and her two 30-something year old daughters just moved back home. They expect mom to cook and clean and go back to the way things were before they moved out, and had husbands.

We asked why, when they’re grown-ups? Jane shrugged. She was APOLOGETIC like what could she do, it must be her fault.

Jane said she couldn’t stomach food (hospital food, DISGUSTING) and could not shift the weight of years. I chatted on a bit about giving up grains and sugar. What they do to us. How they harm us.

I asked how old she was. “I’m 64,” she said, embarrassed, like it is a thing to be ashamed of.

“Hey,” I smiled, “I’m 66.”

Her mouth fell open.

“Darling,” I said, “You can get better… a bit… Are you feeding the others?”

“Yes,” she said, “but I can’t just have one Tim Tam. I have to eat the lot. I don’t know how to stop.  don’t want to be like this.”

“How long you think you’ll be in hospital?” I asked.

“I’m here for a week, I think. This is like a hotel to me. How do you look the way you do?”

I explained.

And then her husband came. He was supposed to bring her the roast veggies her daughters had cooked. He forgot. He complained about the traffic, the weather, their kids, his job, having to come and visit. She tried to placate him. SHE’S THE ONE WHO’S SICK!!!

So. Back to Dear Daughts for a moment. Gall bladder. Forget the fats. Got to make light. Her housemate brought her their homemade, chicken and ginger soup. I made soup also, chestnut pumpkin with rosemary and Himalayan pink salt. I dry roasted some of it with dukkah.

We both fed a bit to Jane, who had never tasted anything as good. She left the hospital sandwich untouched on her tray. Between yesterday and tonight she had totally perked up. Laughed with strangers. Known delicious food.

Moral?

Be kind. Make kind and caring food. Love one another. Make chestnut pumpkin soup and hug your children but don’t clean up their crap. Age dunna count, we can always turn life around.

No matter what our species.

Bon apetit,

Ly x

Depression, Choice & PCOS

PCOS

What is PCOS? It’s polycystic ovary syndrome. The problem affects one in five women. That’s a lot. What causes it? Not my job to talk about that. This is a food blog. But. Someone I love is putting up with PCOS and, no, the contraceptive pill, for her, is not an option.

WEIGHT

Someone I love is 90 kilo. That should not be a problem because she is beautiful and very fit. But it is. Not because she might not be able to have babies. She either does or does not. It’s a woman’s choice. And I have a little more to say about that before I’m done today.

DEPRESSION

No the problem is that she feels so overwhelmed by the weight of her breasts and the back pain that comes with it that some days she’s depressed. Other days when she’s down is when the folks at the gym stare. I think they stare because she’s big and beautiful and is benchpressing HUGE weights. She thinks they’re judging her. I don’t know. She’s super fit.

More. Doctors judge her. She has been told she is borderline diabetic by one doctor only to be told by a sports physician that she is nowhere near that. Doctors, by the way, do 40 hours nutritional studies throughout their entire training. 40! Her hormones need fixing but nobody seems to know how to do that. On a side note why are women prescribed such weird and potentially carcinogenic medication as birth control? They tried it on men… Hardly anyone ever got breast or ovarian cancer when I was young. People dies of strokes and heart attacks and… well… death. Cancer is BIG business.

FITNESS

She is also overwhelmed by her own lack of self-esteem. She was my weight before this happened. She thinks of herself as lean but then she looks in the mirror.

She runs HIIT for overweight people and advises them on nutrition. They vomit. They lose weight. She cannot. How did it start? She took the pill. The second time she has done this. This is the second time the weight piled on and is immoveable.

SHAME

Why do I write this today? For those of you who have experienced bigotry for your size and those of you who have done it. For definitions of fat shaming. And because NOT ENOUGH research is being demanded by women to get this shit fixed.

Today is not about recipes. I’ll get back to that and I know I’ve been slack but, hey, I’ve just released another book and am writing yet another (2016/17) so bite me.

 

MOTHERHOOD

The other thing I want to mention (because so many mothers out there are also unloving of your bodies) is that nobody warned you, did they? That you have to forget sleep, that you will turn into the person giving orders, washing, missing meals and picking in between, that they’ll want your money, they’ll take your youth and then they’ll leave, or they won’t leave and SOME of you are still cooking for them. Before we get pregnant, and when we give birth, it’s all about the child, the divine little person we are bringing into this world. What a powerful thing it is. No. I love my kids but I know what happened to me when I had them. Can you please put your toys away? Can you put that back in the fridge? Have you got your lunch? Can you please be home by ten? Can we talk about this?

No. You will be called a nag. You will feel like your own mother. You will come to understand that you were lied to and will continue to be lied to. You will be stereotyped in advertising. It will be YOU cleaning the bathroom with that fucking grateful smile on your face.

washingpowder

 

THEN, when you want to get wild and sultry and back into the prowl what do they say? Hmm?

WOMEN

So, later today, or during the week, or right now, take another woman in your arms and tell her how wickedly interesting she is. Admire each other. Take a walk with each other and open up.

Oh, and have a read of The Elegance of the Hedgehog.

Bon apetit,

Ly x

 

Walnuts, Macas and a Day in the Life…

Okay, so this is not a recipe. It’s information. Because of this eating regime… Did I write about that yet? I didn’t? I did a little. Here’s a typical week when I’m not travelling…. (I’ll get the the walnuts and macas later in this article. You can skip to the end if the interim is annoying).

Mornings I wake usually around 8:30/9. I love my sleep and I love to dream. Those of you up at sparrow’s fart? Onya lovelies but it’s not for me.

MORNING

I shower and head straight to the kitchen because I’m STARVING.

Into a glass of water I drop a drop of Vitamin D and a teaspoon of C for immune and bone health. I used to also use Vital Greens but, to be honest, with a garden full of organic greens I’m just not spending the dosh at this stage.

I do recommend it, though, if you’ve got anything freaky going on with your body that needs an extra boost. I was prescribed it, plus shots of vitamin B, plus psyllium husk and huge doses of Vitamin C, when I had a crazy bout of mercury poisoning a few years back. Thought I was going nuts. Luckily my doc was savvy that I’m a fitness person so he got my blood tested for any one of a dozen heavy metals that can mimic depression and anxiety. What caused it? The only thing we could ascertain was that I was taking a daily dose of ‘top shelf’ Omega 3s from wild caught fish. Ditched that super quick. The above ingredients leached the toxin out of my system over about 12 weeks.

Please get tested if you think you’re nuts. Most medicos will advise that you have a mental disorder and put you on anti-depressants or something equally as horrid. It could be the above.

So, vitamins out of the way I switch on the kettle and pop a plain black tea bag into a mug in preparation. Then I do whatever egg dish takes my fancy. I pour boiling water into the mug and pop it on the table for later (I drink the black tea afterwards, while reading the news on my phone).

Monday, Wednesday and Friday I then get ready for the gym. Meet whoever hangs out with me on that day (anywhere from just me to four people) and we do coffee together and chat. By then it’s about 10:30/11am and we drive to my gym. I’m a member of Anytime Fitness Coburg. Lovely staff.

We do an enthusiastic warm up and stretch session then pump iron on whatever body part the regime requires.

Ly in piccie
(Me in the background filming Nila’s workout for when she goes home to Cairns. Can you believe my shoes? (And, yes, that’s a flanno around my hips)

AFTERNOON

We’re back at the house by about 1 (can be later if I don’t have work that afternoon) and I strip off my wraps and wash the perceived ‘other people who touched that fucking dumbbell before me’ OCDness from my hands and go pick salad stuff from the garden.

garden magic 2014 ly
(Yes, I wear a fucking huge hat in the sun. Cost me heaps to get my years of mega-tan skin damage undone.)

We delegate who will chop, pour or mix and other prep, and who will do the dishes later.

We feast on any one of the recipes on this site or variations thereof. Then we have tea and natter.

I tend to work most afternoons, either tarot or writing or editing. One or two days a week I’ll go to Queen Victoria Market, or source any of many whole food outlets, and shop for a few meals. I don’t want to buy in bulk. Not fresh enough. It’s worth discovering how much time has passed between farm and market.

I’ll usually snack on something really small (a bit of left over salad, usually, sometimes a slice of cheese, sometimes I graze through the garden.

Around 6:30 I’ll stop work and make dinner (see recipes).

Just recently I’ve been researching the properties of certain nuts and yesterday I bought activated organic walnuts and organic macadamia nuts, ground them down in the mortar and pestle around 10pm and ate them before bed.

Worth your research. Many other sites also sing the praises of these and many other nuts for balancing your cholesterol. Also as a snack to tide you over.

nuts

Life is good x

A Witch’s Guide to the Art of Aging Disgracefully – Healing Through Bodybuilding and Nutrition

(Full book available 1st September 2018)

Synopsis:

As a young witch de Angeles learned of the body/mind/ spirit connection. Of living true to oneself and earth. A feisty, fearless and formidable wild creature at forty, and for many years after, all that knowledge seemed to unravel and desert her in her fifties. Because of menopause. Because of betrayal and the social bigotry of gender/age shaming. Warrior-trained, she summoned her inner Claymore, climbed the abyss of commonly accepted profiling and discovered the art of ignoring it. Elder, witch and healer, she writes the revised and expanded edition of the out of print BODY LANGUAGE, Aligning Mind and Body Through Nutrition, Resistance Training and a Touch of Magic to assure all women (and the occasional bloke) to not despair. Take up the cause of self-determination. Be strong, and proud of how you live and who you are. Be that hoodoo hussy your ex intended as an insult. At competition-level bodybuilding aged sixty-six, de Angeles teaches the weaving, howling, disgraceful and unconditional journey of limitless individuality.

WITCH AS HEALER

Ly by Anthony 2018 small

Photography Anthony Rodriguez, Melbourne 2018

HEY LOKI. MR TRICKSTER, please explain…

HOW DO I DO WHAT YOU WANT ME TO?
HOW SHOULD I BEHAVE LIKE I SHOULD?
HOW AM I TO BE ME AND AGE GRACEFULLY?

AS A HEALER I communicate with bodies, human and otherkin. To do this I first explore what works and what does not. Magic is, after all, both an art and a science. While others write your name on a candle and burn it, place the vellum with your enemy inscribed thereon and shove it to the back of the freezer, some will dose you with herbal tinctures or conjure you a talisman from the bones of long-dead tiny birds. And yes, I do all that, except the freezer trick. They are all deep and ancient techniques. We also sometimes do other things not meant for this book but that’s neither here nor there. This form of healing is that of food and physical training. They also work. And while these arts are usually a matter of knowledge and body-to-body conversation, you have this grimoire. It is based solely and only on personal experience, so I promise there will be no parlor tricks, table-rapping or snake-oil. I also have no academically-acceptable accreditation so take this as a diary and use it by comparison, if you like

This is your new health story but I’m beginning with the dark arts of how to banish a sleazebag because the latter exists. They are the tricksters in myth and indigenous lore. Loki in a mortal man’s body. If you encounter one of these do not feed it. Do not stroke it, or its ego. Stare the beastie in the face, but carefully. You never know whether they will turn on you and hurt you. Even kill you. Because as we all know, witch or not, we are murdered all the time. Or betrayed. Or whatever abuse you hide away, because of shame or impotence. Because of that time you wept when you were raped, verbally physically or psychically abused, were smirked at or treated like an object. In a courtroom where some other sleazebag worked very hard to make you out to be a liar. We are mainly hurt because we are women. What is that? There is, after all, never another reason. To you nice blokes? Excellent. I have met one or two of you, through a martial art, our poetry, in fitness and healing, in my covens, across from me at my tarot table, in a show, for a secret conversation.

Healer –

As a small, lean, cis woman I am a bodybuilder and a warrior, and therefore I am strong.. If you choose to put the techniques from this manual—grimoire—into practice, the healing could also work for you. You will also become strong Does that mean you will never encounter Loki? Don’t be fooled, for even a minute, that you won’t.

AGING DISGRACEGULY for eBook

Available on Amazon if you want a hard copy.
Only available in Australasia through me directly www.lydeangeles.com
art of - cover building for blog

Live it all so very well! x