Dreaming of a White Christmas

It didn’t snow for Christmas this year, which really was a shame. I dare say Norway is one of the most beautiful countries in which to enjoy the season when it’s cold and white and beautiful. Instead, it rained for the majority of Christmas Eve and Day, and we just had to make do with candles and music inside while listening to the rain whipping on our windows.

The other tradition to be neglected this Christmas was my sugar intake. I didn’t have any. At all. About three weeks before the time was upon us I decided to quit refined sugar for good. I remembered those two weeks sometime early this year when Ariz and I experimented with taking refined sugar entirely out of our diet and the ensuing cleanliness my body thrived in. But regardless of how good I felt back then it’s still needless to say that Christmas 2013 has been full of interesting new experiences and surprises – the holiday doesn’t exactly scream sugar free, at least not in Norway.   

The day after my epiphany/challenge/”Oh my god, what have I done?”, I sat down to collect recipes for all my favourite Christmas cookies without sugar. Gingerbread was an obvious one, then chocolate balls, oat nuts (havrenøtter) and finally, goro – a very Norwegian tradition. It’s actually so traditional that they’ve stopped producing the goro irons – luckily my mum sampled one before it was too late. I was filled with enthusiasm and willpower and thought a sugar free Christmas would be a pure, healthy piece of cake. It’s funny how excited we are about new things – a new haircut, a new car, or a new resolution. I don’t think I’m ever as determined about the new year as I am January 1^st. But then comes the 2^nd and the 3^rd and soon enough you begin to lose the initial fascination with the new and become tired and sick of the usual.

Having that said, I was still motivated to stay sugar free when I decided to try out a gluten-free, sugar-free gingerbread recipe. I’ll just skip right ahead to the ending for those of you who haven’t got time for the story: gluten-free gingerbread should only be made by those with a special license and/or magic ability. The thing about baking without flour is that almond flour, which is most commonly used as a substitute, does not bind the dough as well as its counterpart. Imagine my surprise, but primarily horror, when I mixed everything together and not only did it taste absolutely nothing like gingerbread, but it also crumbled like a week-old, dried out slice of bread. It was literally impossible to make anything that was even mildly similar to the slim, delicious, crispy gingerbread I had so hoped to achieve.

Setbacks like these almost make me want give up. I didn’t want to have a sugar free Christmas anymore. It was a dumb idea and I would go back to the refined yummies immediately. But after some comforting words from my mother and husband I decided to try again, and simply attempt to find a sugar substitute, rather than a gingerbread substitute altogether. It worked beautifully. The cookies that came out of the oven were, indeed gingerbread. And that’s coming from someone who loves gingerbread almost as much as she loves Christmas itself. My spirits were officially restored and I went on to the chocolate balls and goro. And they were both successes. Particularly the goro, which was so delicious that we finished them all before Christmas, forcing me to make another batch on the 25^th.

It’s the 29^th of December today, and I’ve survived my very first holiday completely without sugar. Even though it’s tough I still think I prefer it to feeling awful and buying premade cookies that anyone could have made. Making everything from scratch sort of adds that little traditional and personal touch of having to spend a few hours baking and reflecting on what a beautiful time of year it really is. So next year I’ll dream of a white Christmas again, though just the cold, outdoors, kind of magical one.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year J

I'm back, baby!

When I lived in Auckland, New Zealand as a kid there was an amusement park called Rainbow’s End. They ran a TV commercial at least 20 times every day, especially in summer time when my mother and I were living in Kiwiland. One day, my mum said that she would take me and my friend Kimone on a Saturday to go visit Rainbow’s End. Obviously, I was ecstatic. I believe we had to wait something like three weeks before we finally found a Saturday that suited all parents and both children involved, and finally, we were on our way.

Entering the gates of the amusement park was probably the biggest let-down of my life. The fanciest attraction was a stinking rollercoaster that took something like a minute to ride, and that had looked at least twice as big on TV.  To say I was bummed would be the understatement of my childhood. Before moving to New Zealand, I had visited Disneyland outside of Los Angeles and my naïve ten-year-old brain had hoped Rainbow’s End would at least be reminiscent of the outstanding American theme park. Well, it wasn’t.

The difference between Rainbow’s End and Disneyland, LA is a good analogy to the complete joy I’ve been bathing in since returning to Norway from Kurdistan. Trying to stay healthy and fit in Sulaimaniyah was a little like living as far away as possible from anything that could be called health or fitness. Picture a desert island in the middle of the Pacific Ocean of training and good eating, and that’s Kurdistan for you. Needless to say, coming to Norway has been nothing short of magical.

Ariz and I have spent countless hours browsing the shelves of regular super markets, and jumping from pure excitement when we’ve so easily been able to find the products we’ve been missing in Kurdistan. Skimmed, protein-enriched milk. Skinny cottage cheese. 4% fat ham (of pork!). Full-grain bread. Fresh chicken fillets. Salmon. Salads, capsicum, celery, apples aplenty, and even blueberries and raspberries. To say I’m in Zone Diet heaven would be the understatement of my adulthood.

And then there’s the fitness aspect of it all. We’re members of a gym. A real one. Not the one in our spare bedroom which held a bench press, some weights, and a treadmill. We’re proud members of a gym that’s open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week, all year long. And they’ve got machines, and weights, and treadmills, and elliptical trainers, and all the space you can imagine. Ariz doesn’t need to hold my legs when I do oblique crunches anymore, cause there’s a wall especially made for just that. I don’t need to jump on the tiny bench press bench, cause they have squared stands made for jumping onto. There are other women at the gym, who are at least twice as strong as I am. And when we want to order protein, or vitamins, or casein, we simply do, online, and have it at our doorstep two days later.

My body is relieved, and I’m relieved. I’m very happy to say that I’ve finally landed – after five years overseas – in the Disneyland, LA of fitness.

No pain, no gain

There are more than six hundred muscles in the body. Yes, you read that right. Bet that explains the unexplainable soreness after your last workout, someplace you “didn’t know existed”. It sure did for me. Here’s another fun fact: humans are born with all the muscle fibre they will ever have. Which means we don’t produce any muscular fibres while we live, they simply grow thicker. Taking this, and a few billion other facts into account, you’ll slowly begin reach the tip of the iceberg that muscles are - my friend Eline who studies medicine will tell you all about this. What truly amazes me, though, is my muscles’ ability to gain strength.

When you work out you’re actually breaking your muscles. Not substantially, but weightlifting causes microtears in your muscular fibres, which in turn will build up again and thus become stronger. No pain, no gain, right, muscles? This is why recovery is of the essence; your muscles need time to recuperate, and allow for the fibres to become thicker. And my, oh my does the body learn how to do this at top speed and efficiency if you just teach it how. 

I remember lying on a bench in Swaziland about three years ago, struggling severely with one rep of 10 kilos on the bench. When I needed help for the second one, my friend told me that benching wasn’t for girls, anyway - something about boobs becoming smaller (now there’s false statement number one of that year) and chest looking less feminine. I think my peer was trying to comfort me a little in my utter failure, but all he did was plant a seed in my mind. It grew into two separate plants, which have taken a lot of pruning and pulling to remove. The first plant (the less aggressive of the two) told me that as a girl, there were some muscles I simply didn’t need to work on. They were men muscles - non-unisex. The other plant, however, was a dangerous sprout. It argued I wasn’t strong enough. That bodybuilding for women was reserved for those few on steroids who look like gingerbread on Christmas Eve.

It was long after this, sometime last year, that I begun some serious mind gardening. I began to realise that girls are just as capable to work towards a fitness goal as men are. And not just a fitness goal: a bodybuilding goal. Elementary, right? But not till March this year did I get back on the bench. Amazingly, my months of working on my chest and biceps off the press had made me strong enough to bench 20 kilos without much struggle, at least if I kept my reps low and sets few. Then, as Ariz and I switched to our diet, I decided to push myself harder. I started increasing my reps and sets until the 20 was a minor piece of cake. About a month ago, I started on the 30 kilo. In the beginning, it was tough, but not so tough as to make my muscles go home for tea and biscuits. I could do it. And every week, my fibres had grown thicker, giving me more power - more strength, I should say - to work towards my goal. It’s an intoxicating feeling, strength. Now, I’ve started to understand why professional athletes feel invincible. There is a riveting flow of happiness that rushes through you as you realise your muscles are fully capable of doing what you’re asking of them. 

Becca Swanson’s world record for female bench pressing is 270 kilos. Take that, you stupid boy from a few years back. 270 kilos. And her boobs look just fine and dandy. She’s probably got some of the thickest muscle fibre around, too. Me, I still have a long way to go. I don’t even know if I’ll ever reach my 90 kilo goal, but if I ever do, I’ll be the happiest muscle owner in the world. And now that they know - my muscles - where I hope to be, I’m sure they’ll get me there one day at a time.

Healthy heritage

In Tanzania, 1000 people of the Hadza tribe still live as hunter-gatherers. They’ve been largely unchanged in their way of life for the last (at least) 10 000 years. This fascinating people was used as the basis of a study published in 2012, which essentially proved, and highlighted, the theory I’m constantly presented with as fact whenever browsing health sections online: You wanna stay fit? Lose weight? Be healthy? It’s 80% diet, and 20% exercise. That is, no matter how many hours you spend pumping, running, and lifting, it won’t burn off those burgers from McDonald’s or delicious chocolate cake. Since the Hadza people live like we Westerners did as hunter-gatherers thousands of years ago, the team of scientists from the UK, Tanzania, and the States, weighted their exercise level against their metabolic rate. The latter was then compared to the metabolic rate of Westerners. And guess what they found? The metabolic rate of the Hadza tribe is exactly the same as yours or mine. It’s a human characteristic, which does not change.

Man, was I glad to read that. It would suck quite a bit if I’d put all the effort of this month into eating healthier (at a somewhat drastic level, I might add), and then found out all I needed to do was run a couple kilometres further on the treadmill. The change in diet I’m referring to is one Ariz and I made a few weeks back. Ramadan was over, my lovely mother had gone back to Norway (taking some of my heart with her), and it was time to get back on track. Ariz has been pestering me about the Zone diet for as long as I can remember us getting into fitness. All “Miniblocks” this, and “equal parts” that. But then I started thinking about this Hadza tribe (well, I didn’t at the time, but for the sake of storytelling, let’s pretend I did), and I thought to myself, it wouldn’t really hurt giving a proper change in diet a go. I know we’ve tried it before. But this was different. You’ll see.

I started reading from the two leaflets Ariz has carried religiously with him wherever we’ve moved, and realised this Zone diet makes a lot of sense. Don’t ask me about the science, though - I can’t really be bothered with that. The essence of this way of eating is that your body only needs a certain amount of fats, proteins, and carbohydrates per day (depending on gender, and activity level, of course), and these have set values in the form of miniblocks. These values go like so:

1 miniblock of fat = 1.5 g
1 miniblock of carbs = 9 g
1 miniblock of protein = 7 g

So, if I need 14 blocks of each of these per day, that means I need to consume 21 grams of fat, 136 grams of carbs, and 98 grams of proteins in 24 hours. Yes, yes, I know it’s a lot of math. It’s also an f-ton of vegetables to consume. I honestly cannot get over the amount of healthy food you have to eat in order to compensate for a teensie tiny bit of unhealthy food. Go figure. Anyway, getting back to my storytelling.

Ariz and I started this diet a few weeks back, and the change in everything related to physical and psychological wellbeing is just astounding. I know, I know, I’ve talked about this a billion times. But this Zone diet is something different. I just feel healthier. Like, long-term prospect, thinking about the future healthier - somewhere rooted deep inside my body, probably where that Hadza tribe hunter-gatherer is buried from thousands of years ago in my instincts. I don’t feel like chocolate and fast food and chips anymore. And I’m not just saying that. Honestly, I don’t. My favourite snack right now is a handful of dates and some nuts. It’s like my mind’s erased all those things I used to love putting into my body before, and replaced them with something equivalently tasty - but healthy. The mind’s a mysterious place - it’s almost like it wants my body to be happy.

Here I go again....

I know I’ve written a lot of blogs about what it feels like to start training again after a long break. But I don’t think anything quite measures up to level of pitiful state my body had reached when I got back on the treadmill and hit the weights once again this week. Two months of holidaying in Norway, with the country's delicious food, drinks, and not to mention (lots of!) wedding cake, followed by an even more sinful two-week stay in Florence takes its toll on muscles and heart. The uplifting thing, though, is how incredibly thankful your body becomes when you do decide to treat it to some cardio and muscular exercise again. All is forgotten; the pimples disappear, the joint aches vanish, and the concentration of your mind is suddenly top notch once more. 

Today, I managed to do TEFL, university work, the kitchen tidy-up sorely needed, bake cinnamon buns, Skype with my oldest friend, go to the shops, and still write this blog. This fascinates me. Particularly because last week, when I hadn’t started working out yet, I struggled with an hour and a half of study in the morning. After this ordeal, I felt tired, exhausted, and uninterested in any other form of physical or mental exercise. That knot of stress and unease in my chest was still very much alive, and the first thing I did in the morning was worry about how I was going to finish everything I needed to do during the day.  Keep in mind, this was just seven days ago. 

Now, fast forward to the amount of stuff I got done today. And the fact that my brain is still capable of writing this blog with some coherence. I know there have been studies done on all this, and I probably seem like a bit of a dimwit for saying it, but exercise seriously enhances your physical and psychological state of well-being! I cannot reiterate enough how wrong people who say exercise will make you more tired really are. It’s a flat-out lie. These people, they’re lying to you. Their argument is like doctors' recommending heroin to prevent a nasty cough in the early 20th century. Heroin is bad for you, and exercise makes you more energetic, joyful, and capable of doing whatever it is you need to do the day after your exercise. Can I get an “endorphins”, anyone? I’m off to make dinner now. 

Once upon a time in Swaziland...

When I was 17 years old, I moved to Swaziland in Southern Africa. My experience with gyms at this point was, to put it subtly, limited. I don’t know what makes a person who’s never gone to the gym tick, and suddenly decide to start going, but for me it was a close to two metres tall, severely bulked up kid from Africa, who said there were plenty of girls who would go to the gym, if the option was there for them. 

So I started going. I felt, literally, like a baby lemur in a male gorilla cage. These guys were growling and howling with their 20’s and 50’s and 100’s, and I stood there, in a corner, feeling like the most awkward person in world, struggling with three sets of 10, 2 kg’s in hand. But it got to me. Going to the gym is like getting the travel bug; it’s a lifelong obsession and once it’s got you, it never lets go. After a while, I was organising gym times for girls, and doing 150 sit-ups five times a week. 

It feels like an eternity since I got up at 6 AM twice a week to open the dusty, worn-down gym; the excitement I felt when the coach had bought a treadmill over one of our term breaks, and the happiness at the number of girls in attendance rising. I think back to the time before I started pushing weights and hitting the treadmill, and I cannot fathom how I ever didn’t. It seems like such an integral part of me now, like breathing or eating or watching films or writing. 

A few months ago, Ariz said to me: “I think you’re just going to have to accept you’re going to be one of these fit people who runs around in the forest and leaves the gym last at night.” This was a strange concept for me to take in. I never thought I would ever be able to even do a push-up, and now I can do five angled ones - ten if I really want to. Squats were an impossibility up until this winter:

“My knees are too weak,” I’d say to Ariz at Aqualife, “I can’t keep my balance and there’s too much pressure on them when I sit down.”

“If you do them more, and carefully, your knees will get stronger,” was his solemn reply. 

And he was right. Tell me to do 50 squats with 10 kg of extra weight? No problem.

I look at the journey the gym’s taken me and my body on, and I have to admit it fascinates me that the simple feeling of being tiny, and uncomfortable, and weak in a busted, African gym, is enough to get you hooked on a lifetime of strength, discipline, and fun. 2kg’s, I salute you.

Food, tranquility, Florence

Early yesterday morning, I arrived back in Kurdistan and thus, real life. I’ve had an absolutely amazing summer vacation, in which food has been one of the main foci, and particularly so on my honeymoon. This blog, then, will quite simply be a tribute to good food, Florence, and enjoying one of the simplest of pleasures in life. Let’s face it, I ain’t getting back on that treadmill just yet.

Florentines have a marvellous way of relaxing with food. They eat all the time, everywhere, everything, and they enjoy it to the fullest. At the B&B Ariz and I slept in Florence, fresh croissants, biscuits, as well as port wine was at hand 24/7. Around the corner, at the gorgeous Caffe Sant’Ambrogio, you could buy a glass of wine for 4 Euro, and enjoy complimentary prosciutto, pasta, nuts, and mini pizzas free of charge. A few shops down from that; the best chocolate ice cream I’ve ever tasted in my life. And then the beautiful Cibreo, where I enjoyed both cod mousse and stuffed rabbit, both cooked to perfection. All this, in the area of just four blocks. It is amazing to put this much delicious food into your mouth. And even though it’s not conventionally “healthy” food, I do believe there is something thoroughly good for your soul in sitting down, enjoying a glass of wine, and eating a dish someone has clearly prepared with skill and not to mention, love. 

Florence is a beautiful city in all its aspects; the sights, the people, the history. What you can’t read in a book, though, is how good the minestrone at Oleandolo just off the Duomo tastes with a glass of ice cold, fresh prosecco. You can’t describe the subtle hint of bacon in a porcini mushroom risotto at Olio and Convium, a few blocks down from Ponte Vecchio. And you certainly have to go there, be there - smell it, taste it, feel it - in order to fully experience the genuine hospitality and kindness Florentines treat their guests with. And this, this amazing feeling the city provides you with at all times, is best enjoyed over a glass of wine and some cold cut salami and pancetta from the wonderful Italian pantry.

It is almost as if eating is a kind of breathing to Florentines. And a different one to anywhere else in the world. In Norway, we breathe quickly, while catching the bus or chasing through the woods on skis, thermos in backpack. In New York, they breathe hot air, and run across blinking pedestrian lights to reach work on time, sandwich in hand. And in Bangkok, there’s a different kind of breathing altogether, preferably over some street food in the steaming humidity. But in Florence, ah, in Florence, lunch may take half an hour, or three, and either way, your breath will become calm and steady, over the immensity of pure pleasure that can come from a simple espresso and tiramisu at noon.