Sunday, October 13, 2013


I have an impacted wisdom tooth trying to come through, so I've been trying to find soft things to eat that don't require a lot of chewing or that I open my mouth very wide. Tonight, I cooked the last of a dozen fresh eggs from my sister's chickens, and thought back to when I first started eating egg yolks. For my whole life, up until about a year and a half ago, I was egg whites only (except in scrambled and omelettes, and then it was just one yolk per 3 eggs). I didn't like the taste of them, and was afraid of the amount of cholesterol in them. Then John brought me to a little restaurant in Augusta called Rebecca's Place where I had eggs Benedict for the first time, where I willingly ate egg yolk for the first time. And I liked it.


Fast forward a little to my extended unemployment. You've read about it and my struggles with food stamps and trying to survive (and if you haven't, go ahead and read back). As money dwindled I tried to eat as healthy as possible, which meant finding cheap sources of protein. Occasionally I would score a marked-down steak or package of chicken that I could make stretch for a couple of meals, but overall, meat was expensive. My sister has chickens and often has eggs to spare (and she has fun blue and green eggs!) so I usually have some in the fridge. After having eaten the fresh eggs from my sister's chickens (who eat vegetable scraps, bugs, and grass, and have a nice area to run around), I realized why I didn't like yolk: factory farm raised chicken eggs just don't taste good. You know how we describe things as smelling like "egg farts"? That's what store-bought eggs taste like to me.

Fresh, free-range eggs taste like wonderful sunshine. And I have to have that wonderful sunshine cooked a specific way: sunny side up (very runny) and fried in butter with Johnny's Seasoning Salt sprinkled on them, with some sort of bread vehicle for the yolk (but I've found hash browns or fried potatoes work amazingly well too). I still love eggs Benedict, though. There's a certain sensuality to fresh, creamy egg yolk coating your lips, and it's so much better for you than factory farmed eggs.

For those of you that don't like egg yolk, I challenge you to find fresh, local eggs. You'll find that they taste so much better than anything you can buy in the store.

Sunday, October 6, 2013

Tatas Aren't Worth Saving

So last October, I ranted about the commercialization and commodifying of breast cancer/breast cancer awareness and how marketers take advantage of people's needs to feel good about supporting a cause by buying stuff. Breast cancer was, and still is, a very personal subject to me. So when I see the idiotic meme to the right floating around Facebook, and all the stupid "save the tatas" shit, I need to rant, and rant hardcore. I can understand the intent behind it all: be supportive! Be aware! Cancer is bad! But you know what? Memes like this and pink rubber "save the tatas" bracelets trivialize the disease and the women who struggle with it.

Not to sound like I'm ripping off Jezebel's article from last year on a similar subject, but we really need to stop the focus on the "breast" part of breast cancer awareness. In this sexualized American culture, more importance is put on the actual breast tissue than the woman with the disease. Let's talk breasts for a minute. What are they? According to
The breasts make milk for breastfeeding. It has 2 main types of tissues: glandular tissues and supporting (stromal) tissues.
The glandular part of the breast includes the lobules and ducts (shown in the picture below). In women who are breastfeeding, the cells of the lobules make milk. The milk then moves through the ducts–—tiny tubes that carry milk to the nipple. Each breast has several ducts that lead out to the nipple.
The support tissue of the breast includes fatty tissue and fibrous connective tissue that give the breast its size and shape. (source)
Breast tissue is non-essential. Women can easily live without breasts. However, so much emphasis is placed on the breasts being a large part of a woman's feminine identity that women often feel that a mastectomy makes them less feminine, or takes away their womanhood somehow. In '"Does That Make Me a Woman?" Breast Cancer, Mastectomy, and Breast Reconstruction Decisions among Sexual Minority Women,' Rubin and Tanenbaum write:
Lorde’s (1997) account of her own experience of breast
cancer was among the first to illuminate the sexism, racism,
and heterosexism ingrained in both the clinical and social
context of breast cancer. She was particularly concerned with
the assumption, expressed by medical professionals and
breast cancer support organizations alike, that some form of
replacement breast—whether through prosthesis or
reconstruction—is an essential element of cancer survivorship.
 Instead of focusing on the breasts as something that must be saved, let's look at the women themselves, and create a supportive and safe network for them where they don't have to feel like they are less of a woman for having a mastectomy done, or that they are reduced to no more than fatty tissue on their chests. Need to have a mastectomy? Go for it. Genetically cursed and want to do one preemptively? Excellent. It's your choice to have them removed, and also a choice whether you want them reconstructed. Either way, you're still a woman. In the end, it is the person who matters, not a fleshy part of the body.

For further reading, here is an excellent article about survivor identity. And here's a wonderful article about post-mastectomy tattooing.