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Food: What can we do?

Farmers' Market, Uncategorized

I don’t know why I didn’t put up my hand. I don’t know why I didn’t ask the question filling my brain the entire time she was talking. I’ve rarely been one to shy from asking questions. I’ve got journalism in my blood for goodness sake; I should have asked the question. This week I attended the latest installment of the UBC Reads Sustainability series, a program that brings well-known authors to campus to discuss issues of sustainability. It was the first I’d heard of the program, and was intrigued for a few reasons: 1) The speaker, Simran Sethi, is a journalist (see blood above) and her book is called Bread, Wine, Chocolate: The Slow Loss of Foods We Love. For those of you who’ve been long-time readers, you already know, but for those of you new to the PoP ways, chocolate might as well BE my blood. 2) I […]

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Pizza, worse than a tequila hangover

Diabetes, Uncategorized

Pizza, it is the bane of existence for diabetics the world over. The taste, a garlic-infused crispy crust, savoury tomatoes and fungi, oozing mozzarella, and the spice of the carefully placed basil tantalizing your taste buds. So savoury. So delectable. A treat that calls out in your dreams, lures you in your wake. But a treat, nonetheless, that makes you look at diabetes in the same manner as organic chemistry. I have had this disease for 29 years, and I have yet to master the skill of calculating the bolus’ and basals for pizza. I can eat baked cheesecake, no problem; cheese oozing quesadillas, no problem; but pizza, it has foiled me nearly every time I partake. Shame. Big Ring is a master of the pizza-making skill. Ever since we visited Italy seven years ago, he’s been perfecting the art of Neapolitan-style pizzas. But for years, I’ve been shaking my

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Strategic disengagement

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Today I quit. It’s not a territory I am all that familiar with. Sure, a couple years ago I quit a career, but that was with a new one in the foreground. A few years ago I quit a race, but that was the act of Dear Diabetes, completely out of my control. Speaking of Dear Diabetes, I quit her once too, but my brain wasn’t fully developed so I can’t really be blamed for that. I’ve had thoughts of quitting other things: my first marathon I had visions of running in front of the tram; my first time up the Grouse Grind, I had urges to hurl myself over the side of the cliff. Chemistry, I thought for sure I’d blow up the lab and be done with it. But never, never, never was there the option of stopping and turning around. Today I stopped. But I didn’t turn

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Dreaming for the glory of glasses

Diabetes, Uncategorized

Alright eyes, we got this. Don’t let me down, eyes. This year is our year. Got it. Alright, let’s DO this. That was the pep talk my lovely, grey eyes got yesterday morning all through breakfast, all through transit, all through the rainy walk, and every step up the five flights of stairs to my opthalmologist’s office. Yesterday was my annual eye appointment. This appointment I dream of for 365 days, hoping, praying, begging for my eyes to finally falter in the presence of my opthalmologist. I am obsessed with glasses, been so ever since one of my elementary school besties showed up to class in an oversized pair of pink specs. I loved them! I had to have them! When I was diagnosed with Dear Diabetes shortly after and told my diabetic eyes could be a thing of concern, I swear to you that was one of the happiest

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48 months: I am the walrus

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Dear Little Ring, Yesterday I was having an absolute crumb of a day, so blah, so lethargic, so lacking motivation. I couldn’t figure out why, and then, it struck me. Just hours remained of my baby being a baby. I love seeing your every growing milestone; I love your wild personality that gets wilder with age; I love the crazy, random conversations your growth has invited me into. But yesterday, the realization that my baby was no longer a baby, no longer a toddler, but a proper, young boy – closer to independence than mama reliance – I’m not going to lie, it stung. In proper, good, Little Ring fashion you turned that sting into a flutter of love. To most, you are not much of a hugger (your papsy credits your German roots for that). But every day, multiple times a day, you give mama hugs. Kisses, however, are

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