Training in Texas

I'm training for some sort of running event again, either a half or a full marathon depending on how the knee holds up. It's scheduled for the end of September in Bellingham, WA. I'm training throughout the summer in Texas. Advantage much?

My first problem was finding the perfect time of the day to run. Temperatures have been well above 100 degrees lately, and for all of you who don't know what 106 feels like, it's hot. If the sun is out, running's a bad plan. So I either get up at 5 a.m. or wait until 8 p.m. when the day has cooled to a brisk 97˚F.

I run at a nearby park, about half a mile from my apartment. I usually walk there to give myself some warm-up time, crossing through a back alley used for smoking breaks and through a Brookshire's parking lot. I smile and nod at the smokers. Thanks for the secondhand smoke, I tell them. I much prefer that to oxygen when running. Then I walk past an Applebee's, where middle-aged men wave to me. I generally smile and nod at them too, just because it makes me laugh when I hear them tell each other, "She grinned at me," when they think I'm out of earshot. After that it's a few BBQ joints, a taco stand or two, and a donut shop while passersby in trucks honk and I roll my eyes.

The trail at the park is about 2.25 miles, which is great for short runs. The longer runs can get monotonous. It's not a bad park, though, especially in the evenings -- a good mix of Spanish and English, ponds fringed with people fishing in lawn chairs, a couple of playgrounds, and an ice cream truck. I run around and around, dodging dragonflies the size of sparrows while little boys holding fishing poles in one hand and cans of worms in the other dash by on their bikes. Running in the morning is a bit more unpleasant, since the smell of ribs smoking behind the BBQ joint about four feet from the trail makes me slightly nauseous when running 10 miles. But I power through.

The sweat's not fun. I never knew I could sweat like that. But I'll spare you the details. The thirst isn't too enjoyable either. Neither are the gnats that fly into my mouth or the 85% humidity that makes me feel like I should have donned a suit and tried swimming the designated mileage. But again, I tough it out.

Then I walk back, through the "hello"s and "hola"s and "mornin'"s and evenin'"s, and I slap the mosquitoes off my legs and I wonder how much of my skin melted off in the heat. And then I do it again the next day.

Why? Easy. Because it makes me feel like this.



Except that she doesn't look particularly sweaty, or covered in bites, or nauseous from the smell of ribs smoking, or frightened by nearly being impaled by a kid with a bike and a fishing pole, or annoyed at trucks honking at her. Guess she's not in Texas.

Dear future husband, concerning our suppers

Dear future husband,

If you are hoping for small cozy meals by candlelight, please be forewarned that I am not the girl for you. If you want extravagant meals full of exotic and expensive ingredients, nope, I'm not the girl for you.

See, I cook meals that can be served out of a large pot or a casserole dish. Exclusively. Blame it on high school years spent cooking for a large family and a fluctuating and unpredictable number of guests who wandered in our ever-open door. ("Our door always swings in," was the parting statement my dad gave to whomever he met.) Crock-pot meals were cheap, hearty, could be kept warm for hours, and could be frozen or refrigerated easily.

Cooking for one has been a challenge. I use my freezer a lot. But when I go back to my parents' house and cook for the crew there, I feel right at home. This weekend I went back to play mom to the kiddos while my mother was out of town. After dropping off my bags and hugging the children, the first thing I did was scour the kitchen to see what I'd be serving for supper for the next few nights. I didn't want to make a grocery trip, so I was stuck with whatever I could find in the pantry, freezer, and garden. I emerged with brown rice, a bit of chicken, zucchini, carrots, and squash. I can work with this, I thought.

Saute the chicken and carrots in a dab of butter, add the rice and veggies and some water, later add some basil. And viola! Dinner is served.

OK, so maybe this huge pot of food won't win me any award on Top Chef, but the three-year-old did ask for four servings, the sensory kid who can't handle new textures learned that he likes squash, the whole family ate their fill, and I didn't have to make a Walmart run. That's a successful supper in my book.


(The meager leftovers.)

So then, future husband, if you want large, inexpensive meals that serve huge crowds, I'm all in. If you want those gorgeous little Bon Appétit meals, though, I hope you enjoy cooking.