Healthy Recipes for Busy People: Chicken with Herbs

Today I cooked chicken with herbs. Simple, delicious and healthy...

Recipe name: Chicken With Fresh Herbs from the Reindl Garden

Time for cooking: prep:5 mins + 25 mins in the oven

Ingredients:

Thyme (handful)
Rosemary (handful)
Oregano (handful)
Chopped garlic (1-2 cloves)
Chicken breast in strips (1 1/2 breast)
Salt and Pepper- own judgement

Pre-preparation: Preheat oven at 400F

Cooking process:

1. I used a baking dish (13x9 in) and put a liiiiiiitle bit of olive oil so the chicken doesn't get stuck on the base of the dish.
2. I put all the chicken cut in strips and added salt and pepper to both sides.
3. Spread the chopped garlic on top of the chicken
4. Defoliate all leaves (thyme, rosemary and oregano) and place them on top of the strips of chicken. Distribute evenly.
5. Cover the baking dish with aluminum paper and put in the hot oven for 25 minutes.

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How to serve?
Endless options: Mesclun mix (best choice), diced baked potato, small portion of plain noodles, rice (not the best choice)


Try it. I'm not the best cook but this recipe turned out to be awesome.  You'll have a  guilt free delicious experience.

Migraines

During the last few days I experienced changes in my body and mind that I haven't experienced ever...ouch!
Day one: headache, swollen eyes and nausea. Day two: irritated eyes, more headache and a horrible hate to light- any kind: artificial, natural...did not matter. Driving was a real tough task and to stay on a straight line even harder.
At day three I decided to go to the doctor because day one and two were all combined. Something isn't right, I thought. And I was right guessing my body wasn't right. Migraine, the doctor said. That simple word made a very complicated week for me.
Photo-phobia, the doctor said.  My teary eyes were begging the doctor to stop with that little light pointing straight to my teary eyes. 
Stress from work, the doctor said. I won't talk about work and what kind of stress I have because this is not related to work (my blog, that is).
Constricted muscles, the doctor said. True, mostly due to the above topic and life itself.
I'm away from work for a week. I (usually) complaint about not having extra days off. This week I wished I could be at work. I couldn't stand being in bed, in darkness, in silence...in pain.
My husband helped me to get through the pain by not making noises, making me tea and reducing all levels of worries I could have.
My mother, brother and sisters- I have not enough words to thank them. To Romi, for driving me to the doctor and pharmacy. My mother came to my house to make me food, to give me medical massages and to pamper me- just like moms know how to do. My brother came to give me company and to make me laugh with his jokes.
My dad and Pao were so worried calling probably every hour to check on me. To say the least, I have an awesome family who care about me a lot and love me without conditions.


Let's get to what migraine has done to me, though.


The pain is horrible. I started to feel a strong pain behind my eye balls (that's why I thought I had an eye infection- eyes burning and having discharge) that leaded to the back of my neck. I felt like if elephants were jumping on my head. I thought Lillian (my cat) gained so much weight that her jumps from the couch to the floor sounded so profound and painful. I wondered if I was becoming a bat- afraid of the light. I couldn't comb my hair because the sensation of having a comb passing through my head was mortifying.  Appetite was completely gone. Music was the least thing I wanted to think of (and all people that know me knows how much I love music), my hair started to fall out of my head (not 2-3 hairs, but big chunks of hair that are scary and (for me) worth crying over).
After the injection of pain reliever and the medications I started to wonder when the pain was going to go away. It wasn't till today in the morning (from Tuesday till Saturday morning) that the strong, abhorrent pain left my complicated head. What a relief to be able to cook, to check emails, to start having a good life again.
I probably slept for 15 hours a day every day during my migraine episode.


Migraines can be inherited. My mom has had them. Did I mention they're horrendous?


What to do now that the episode is gone?


Put stress away. By any means. I have to let my brain relax and find things that I enjoy.
Eat healthy- avoid complicated, heavy meals.
Exercise, exercise, exercise- I have to make my body get connected with my mind and start exercising permanently. I started by walking. And once the pain is completely gone, I will start riding my bicycle again. And I will re-take my zumba classes.   


I'm starting a more healthy life style because I want to get away from migraines. I hope that if you read this blog take action in the matter and be proactive. A lot of people tend to say "I have a migraine" without really knowing what it is. Headaches are not nearly as similar as a migraine. Sadly, I will have more because that's how life is and now that my body learned to react that way I will react again in the same or worse way. I hope that my new choices help me reduce the amount of episodes.


As stimulus for my change I decided to write some recipes for busy people, like me.
I will have them posted shortly.

Few Bad Apples

Weekend living solo. I thought it was going to hit me considerably bad. Why? Because for over a year I learned to have company of people who I love next to me for 2-3 days after surpassing 5 days with the good, the bad, the evil, the nice, the ignorant and close minded people from R-town. I succeeded. I learned that to sleep in late is amazing and that to be lazy on Sunday makes my skin  look better. I learned that singing music while cleaning makes cleaning easier, funner and faster.

I also got the chance to be fancy while doing grocery shopping. I went to my local grocery store, to a store that I don't go often but I like the meats, I went to the local farmers market. Accomplishments? Many. Designed a whole list of dishes for the week and some fancy treats for me 

The bad parts of this weekend? Storms. I never experienced 3 days in a row of scattered storms and rumbling thunders like that.  I needed a hug, a word of "everything is going to be ok, Kath" kind of thing. Oh well, its time to grow up and to pretend storms aren't scary. 

This Sunday afternoon I decided to clean in deep the house that protected me from cold, hot, rain, storms and snow for over a year. To do so, I bought serious cleaning materials- a little bit of chemistry fun never hurts. 

But before, I went to a Mexican restaurant- yes, that kind that looks like fast food type of deal. As soon as I entered (and waiting on a long, long line) the sky turned gray and the rain, lighting, thunder, wind and my scare manifested all at the same time. "Great!" I thought. I usually don't eat in the restaurants alone. I like to take food home so I can put my food on a nice plate, have something good to drink and listen to music I like. This time, I was prospectively going to eat with about 30 Roanokers.  Order placed, credit card swiped, receipt given and my sit search and available-space-to-eat screening began. I found a little table designed for two to eat. Also this table was next to another where a woman was eating with her son. Lovely moment. The picture was great, till the moment I decided to sit and unwrap my chicken burrito. She was done with her food, and since she seemed to have good appetite, she decided to take "dessert"...with me (or of me?).

It started by the comment "Oh what's that? Is it a potato? I'm not going to ever eat a burrito" (looking at my burrito, but not looking at me) which actually made me smile because my burrito did looked like a giant Yukon potato. After that, a compendium (or lecture) to her son about immigrants and how "all Mexicans in Roanoke are illegal and that's why they can't take care of their own business"which made me lift my face to the air and ask God "Did I really pick this sit to hear this person talk?". Her comment wouldn't matter to me much, but the fact is that the restaurant wasn't run for any Hispanic, or Mexicans, as this woman thinks we all are. Is it then expected that every McDonald's is only run by White or Black people? Diversity of races in this melting pot is what it should be expected.  And she kept running her mouth talking about the wonderful times she lived as a kid in Roanoke where it was "more country and with less immigrants". 

I ate my burrito at the speed of the wind blowing outside and once I was done with my food, the storm was done scaring me as well. 

I turned to see this woman's face with a sharp look, straight and feeling-less face. She looked me back, stood up and went away. 

That experience made me think about a lot of things and I associated them with food. Apples, for instance. 

I learned that few bad apples are always there in a basket called society. Some of these apples want to contaminate the other ones by transferring mold, fungus and putrid fractions of themselves. Mama apple wanted to put a thought on a teen apple to reject the different. Why? How does that affect her? The trick in this basket is to keep as many healthy apples as possible, so people would appreciate them better and make them very salable.

I just don't understand why this happens. Why? Three little letters that together make such big statement.For two years I'm in a constant pursue to find answers. I think the answer to ignorance is to ignore and the answer to rejection is acceptance- not to them, but to ourselves. 

I'm standing still and happy every day regardless of those occasional bites I get of a bad chosen apple.  But when I get to digest that bad apple, my body feels the effects and it costs a little bit of work to take that bad element out of my body.

Here it is a toast: To you, bad apple. Wishing you a great putrefaction. Signing with great appreciation, a very good shinny and crispy apple.

Hard-To-Open Bottles Openers, Toilet Seat Lifters, Grill Masters and Late-at-Night Text Messages Senders: Men

Sometimes is good to honor those men who make a difference in your life. As a woman, I found that men in all ages and races have been there for me when needed- and sometimes when their non presence was needed as well. I can't imagine my life without the men that made me the way I am right now. Emotionally speaking, I have a great group of men I do want to honor. But not all male human being are worth to be called men- and those, honestly, don't matter. However, I will talk about those few who earned respect based on merit- and I am picking few right now.
I wouldn't be the person who I am to date if it wasn't for my dad. He's one of my favorite men of all the time. I have countless experiences and stories about my dad. I know I'm not the princess type of daughter to my dad's eyes and I always felt like the boy-ish type of girl who had to demonstrate academic success in order to be appreciated- my dad is a great man, regardless.
From walking, to eating, to hard punishments, to running, to our first dog, to our second, third, fourth....tenth dog, to trips to the mountains, to days at the beach, to trips to the port to pick fresh fish, to biking lessons, to bad scores in school and scary lectures of what I should do, to my rebellious "don't bother me" attitude as teenager,  to celebrations for getting into college, to getting my drivers license,to yelling at me when I wrecked the car, to working together, to teaching me how to rotate the tires of my car alone when my friends were partying, to talks in the deepest sad moments of my life, to blames for moving to another country, to helping me in getting my first car, to sneak out cassettes and CDs of great bands from his collection, to giving me the dirty look when I met a guy, to holding a conversation to tell him I was getting married, to talks late at night with a Corona beer...to discovering a friend. That's what my dad means to me in the 25 years I lived so far. I know I won't understand his ways most of the time (and yes, right now I'm crying as I write) but the older I get, the more I understand his ways and his unconditional love to me, to my sisters, to my mom. My papa taught me the concept of family not by lecturing me, but being there to help me and celebrate my achievements with me. I needed him to open a bottle that I've been struggling to open, and he'd open it as if he was rubbing his fingers on silk.
I love dad's grilling Sundays. My dad whom I seen since always grilling with abuelo and the uncles, now does it alone- No doubt that being away from home has a sour taste. He's my grill master, my mechanic specialist, the one who yells at me, the one who has no fears to hurt you as long as he tells you the crude truth to your face. The one who drives several miles (and sick) just to say Happy Birthday. He's the one who suffered the most seeing me move away. He's the emperor of his empire, the Benitez empire.

Photo 01. Dad, my older sister and me at the port

Photo 02. My dad, my friend

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The Over-exercised Thinking

I’m here. I am trying to be coherent and have elaborated thoughts. Why? I don’t know.  But the mind always wants to think…and mine likes to over-think. I don’t know why, but I guess I should feel glad my mind likes to think, and that I like to exercise my neurons. However, the gladness of my thinking isn’t as bright as I would like because 3 enemies of mine tend to be in the middle of the situation: Anger, sadness, worry.

Tonight I’m thinking a lot. Thinking about my yesterday thoughts – and once those come to my mind I try to think on what made me think what I was thinking. Very complex.

Many people would think I’m just a lazy person with extra time around my clock to just sit down and do it. Some others can assume my unwanted week-days-loneliness is the one who’s making me think. Whatever it is, I hate it.

I hate it, but I also love it. I love to think. To think makes me appreciate more what I have and makes me delete from my memory what is not important. To think sometimes tend to put me in the most deep depression. I shouldn’t even mention the word “D” because no one likes to hear a person with extreme sadness, with harmful thoughts, with excessive crying. But oh well, this is about thinking.

To think comes with ease to me. I like to think of the existence of things, feelings and the meaning behind what a person tells you.  Psychological examination? Paranoia. Sure, it must be.

I’m trying to think as much as needed, as long as it doesn’t hurt my brain. My heart hurts and my brain is saturated. I can’t do it anymore. So, I’m going to direct my thoughts in a positive note, to think on solutions instead of problems. I’m going to show a huge smile to my depression and I’ll take a photo of my smile to show Mr. D I’m stronger than him and that once I promised not to let my thoughts go along with him.

So, here is it is to my over-thinking…I’m showing you a big smile and a huge thank-you note b/c I can appreciate myself and I can think on positive an green instead of being dragged by you and have clouds in my mind.

Take that, over-thinking! 

So...Where is Home? Eh ehmm.. What is home?

This is not the most fun time spent in a long time for a Saturday afternoon. I thought I was going to spend a great time in the north of this beautiful state called Virginia – home.

I’m in the middle of many car shops, waiting for my car to have the last touches. What to do best while waiting? Think. So, here I am - thinking. I was thinking about home. What is home? This question might sound easy to answer. It’s not. Not even close to be.

Is home the address you give to buy stuff over the internet? Is home the land who watched you born? Is home the place where you met the love of your life (if you met him/her already)? What is home? Perhaps home is the place where you discovered the passion for some activity. How to establish the meaning of home? Let’s see.

For over twenty years I thought of home of my camp house in the South American coast: Dry, mild weather, occasional disgusting lizards and many explorations in the over 30 avocado trees.  I thought of home of the big yard where I used to play with my great boxers (and Petruccio in a later stage of my life). I thought of home when I remembered the endless times crying next to that particular Poinciana tree that grew along with me and my sisters.  Wow! I thought that was home. And it was. Is it still home? No. Why? Let’s see.

As I said before, everything is relative especially if you’re talking about material things. There’s no reasonable way to understand the human attachment to things when there’s no emotional attachment to memories or feelings.  Describing home as a physical place is not a definition of home. I always thought of home as a building, as a mixture of bricks, cement and some other materials, but I never saw it as an explanation of what’s in the air, what’s in between those walls. Maybe I did. As soon as I wrote the last paragraph I thought of the framing of the door that welcomed my ex-room. It marked so many memories: Who grew more over the weeks at home. That framing sure has part of the essence of my life. That was me, a person who did believe in home as a building. Is it home still that place? Nahh, why? I don’t know.

So, here I am still trying to figure out what’s the meaning of home. Why is important to find a place? Why is important to have a location in this world. Why to have “the” place instead of having the places?  Having so many questions in my mind I should probably start thinking of what home means now. Being 25 years old…Do I know the meaning of home? Am I at home right now? For years now I thought of it. However, some unwelcoming people decided to take over the job of telling where is NOT home. How could it be possible that a video rent spot could be the perfect place to judge a person who wasn’t as light color as them? Immigrant? YES! I am! So what? Am I less than you? No. Why then to tell me that my race in the US is considered a stack of sh*t? Unbelivable! Should I turn down based on that? No. Do I feel offended? Of course!

However, that kind of situation isn’t going to put my focus away of my pursuit of defining home. Regardless of people who are so focused on colors, having a pretty (excuse my manners) colorless color, I am determined to find home…I guess I got it.

Home isn’t a land. Not for me. Home is the security and comfort I find in people who love me. Home can be a moment, a smell or a taste. There are no physical attachments to anything to feel like home. Home is an abstract beautiful feeling inside. Home is to share what you have in your mind and not in your pockets or credit card. Home is memories. Home is love.  That’s what home is about…There’s no southern country style town of high class big city that defines home.

Who else could know better what home is?

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3HNY0rx2fw4&feature=related

Hope Must Be a Healing Technique...

This story starts thinking on people from Tucson, Arizona...Regardless of all the political implications, the tears dropped and the lives lost, there's one word that comes to my mind: Hope
Why is it that hope comes to our mind whenever something bad happens? Why is hope the medicine to our pains and frustrations? Why to hope and not to act?
It must be really confusing for me. Half of a lie isn't the true...is it? Why to hope for promises and nice words if we done bad to other people?
Hope, is a powerful word...that's for sure. I can't deny the impact and power this little word has in me.  Just like everybody else, I started many sentences by saying "I hope..." and I said it with so much fervor sometimes that I truly hoped for those to be true. Hope wasn't made only for healing pains, was also made to cause pains. We, rational mammals, have this particularity of hoping/wishing bad and good in enormous amounts and mostly bad.
Misused sometimes, abused some others, Hope , is always there.
But for me what is hope? I wish I could know. I recently saw on TV (randomly) a documentary type of thing about the flight 1549 from US Airways. Despite of the pilot's ability to have wonderful maneuvers and land the plane in the safest area possible in a metropolitan surroundings, there was hope. Hope of many passengers. Hope for us, the rest of civilians...To hear the revived comments of many travelers and their experiences at the moment prior "landing" was breath taking. Yet again, Hope only appeared in a moment of desperation, in a bad circumstance.
I realized that to hope is an immediate medicine to heal open cuts and bad scars. I haven't answered myself about what hope is...and why I have hopes.
I think hope is my way to be optimistic, to wish for a tomorrow based on the actions I decide to take today. I've seen many injustice in this world and I can only rely on the hope for a better place for all of us. But, then again I have this question...Why to hope and not to act?
I know I cannot act in all the senses I would hope to do, but I know I can be active in several actions that will turn my nicely decorated "hope" onto reality. Wouldn't be better to be present and factual than to yearn for reality?
This probably might go out of context, but I always hoped to help impoverished countries. I've been given the opportunity to have a privileged life. Not many can have what I do, and so much people have a whole lot more than me. I rather see the glass half full instead of half empty. So, if I have more than enough for me, why not to hope for the rest to have at least as much as I do. What's the kind of society we live in that using junglely techniques says who's strong and who's not? Who's powerful and who's weak?
That's my motto to further my education. I have the privilege of receiving good education and I should act to be the hope for those who don't

I can be the hope of much people, true. But tonight I want to be the hope of myself. I want to act in order to save my hopes and convince my persona that I can always hope and dream (with fears or conviction) but that I can also act and make my wishes and desires to be a reality.


(Did I say that word too many times already? I hope not...)