Friday, January 20, 2012
By guest blogger, Tom Corson-Knowles
Portions, Portions, Portions...
You've heard it before and here it is again; when it comes to nutrition and diet the most important thing (aside from what you are actually eating) is portion control. Even eating only the healthiest foods doesn't work if you aren't eating the right portions. Sure, it's often said that you can never eat too many vegetables, but eating too much of many other foods can help make your middle grow and grow. It isn't difficult to learn portion control and I will tell you how.
Read the Label
The very first step in learning about portions is learning to actually read the labels on the foods that you eat. More importantly, read the serving size on the label. Read it carefully, please. A normal loaf of bread says its serving size is 2 slices, for 140 calories. Look at the difference on some gluten-free bread; 1 slice is a serving at 45 calories. If you pick healthy foods that are low in salt content and sugar content then you really don't need to pay as close attention to calorie count as you would think. Instead, eat healthy and eat the correct serving/portion amounts and you will be on the right track. The USDA gives us a basis with their recommended intake from each food group too. But remember, even vegans and vegetarians eat healthy and get all the nutrients they need without eating meat. So you don't have to eat exactly what the USDA says, that's why it's called a recommendation!
Know Basic Portion Sizes
This is the fun part. Instead of implementing a food scale in your kitchen to weigh out 3 ounces of meat, you can simply memorize this handy little portion size scale.
Pasta and Rice:
A serving size of either of these grains is about the size of a light bulb. These foods are often filling and a full serving can keep you from eating too much of other things, like meat and dairy.
Peanut Butter and Hummus:
These meal additives have a serving size of a gold ball. Peanut butter is a great source of protein, perfect for a lunchtime pick-me-up.
It might be surprising, but an actual serving of cheese is only about the size of 3 dice. It's approximately a quarter of a cup.
A serving of meat is the size of a deck of cards. It is a misconception most people have about meat when the thing the more the better. Protein does help give us energy, but meat is not the only source of protein out there.
Olive Oil or Salad Dressing:
These are things that should always be used sparingly. In fact, a serving is the size of a single poker chip. A little olive oil goes a long way and makes a great salad dressing itself with fresh basil, oregano and garlic added to it.
Do you find yourself filling up a big bowl of cereal in the morning only to end up drained by lunch. Start by passing on the sugary cereals and then be sure that you only have enough cereal to equal the size of a tennis ball.
See how simple items from everyday life can measure your portions for you? Now go, and eat healthy!
Tom Corson-Knowles is the founder of Authentic Health Coaching, an international health education company. Get Dr. Corson's Top 5 Nutrition Tips report for free at www.AuthenticHealthCoach.com
Thursday, January 19, 2012
As a New Yorker living in Buenos Aires, it is often difficult for me to justify going anywhere else but the Apple when I have time off from work. But for this winter break I decided that I must see more of this country I live in, and so I chose to travel to the North. Traveling alone, I felt that staying in hostals would be a great way to stay social and connected, without obligation. And so I booked my flight to Salta and my first two nights at the San Jorge Hostel. Beyond this, I only knew the towns that I wanted to visit: Tilcara, Purmamarca, Humahuaca, and Iruya, deciding to book my stays as I went along.
My 6:30 AM flight from Jorge Newberry Airport was quick and easy. No check-in as I had only a small backpack and a shoulder bag, traveling lighter than I’ve ever done before. With a great sense of freedom, no real plans, and a slight anxiety about engaging with others, my goal was to embrace whatever landed in my path, find a deeper connection with nature, meet interesting travelers, connect with the local people, and gain wisdom from the experience.
Too early to check into the Hostel San Jorge, I drop my bags and headed out to wander. It is chillingly cold topped off by traffic, clogged sidewalks, pollution, and noise. I wade through the jetsam to arrive at the Plaza 9 de Julio to see the majestic buildings and the beautiful park, which is the heart of the town.
By 9:30 AM I’m sitting in La Basilica de Salta, a richly depicted pink and white church with an interior of ornate golds and terra cottas. I then find a café in the sun where I can thaw over tea and medialunas, listening to folk music playing, as it would throughout the whole of my trip. Slowly my coat opens and the sun enters as the morning’s mountain chill mixes with the coming heat.
At the hostel I am to room with two currently absent guys who have obviously claimed the bunk beds. I can’t wait to get out of this overly-bustling town and have scheduled a tour to Cachi for tomorrow. It will be one more night before I take a set of buses to each future stop, with Iruya as my final destination.
Back at the San Jorge night falls and I am freezing and don’t feel like venturing into the town center. The room is uninviting and a shower is definitely not going to happen, as there is no heat in the bathrooms. I end up talking to some of the guys around the computer and then shiver myself into bed under a million blankets. One of my roommates comes in and slips into a lower bunk . Our final roommate becomes scarce for the night, so it’s just the two of us. We chat away in the dark. He is from New Zealand, an incessant traveler who can’t stop the motion, though he’s looking for something concrete. This theme of the perennial traveler seems common in these parts. Earlier, speaking with the Greek biker who doesn’t want to stop his life on the road and then the Italian who will take a film course so he can document his travels. All of these guys are getting themselves off the grid, and all are in love with the warmth of the Latin style. The sensation of wanting to be free and gravitating towards something more “authentic” is palpable and will be the theme of my trip.
We are continuously winding up and around as if we’re wrapping ourselves around a giant snail shell. All is shadow and light with the occasional condor gliding through overhead space. I will see many throughout this trip, but never will manage to catch one on film.
Just as I am feeling weak from the spiraling, we stop for refreshment. I have two cups of coca tea to help me adapt to the altitude, a piece of local bread, and a snappy conversation with Alejandro, who is on holiday from selling solar panels throughout the region. We spend the good part of the trip chatting and exchanging stories.
We are rising to 3,500 meters high as we approach Cachi with its population of 2,200. As we ascend, we travel through the Parque National de los Cordones, a natural reserve that is filled with kilometers of cacti in all states of growth and obscure shapes. This is one of the largest cactus parks in the world and it is both beautiful and bizarre. I walk alongside huge green fingers pointing upwards, careful not to catch myself on the lethal looking quills.
Back on the bus we continue to climb until we stop again for dried fruits, herbs, and spices. I buy a supply of dried apples, freshly ground cumin, oregano, Baila Buena, an herbal tea for energy, and another fragrant herb for aches and pains. Two young children play flute and drums for the tourists and the locals seem pleased with our purchases.
Before we get to the town of Cachi, we stop at an open-air restaurant, beautifully set up to receive us. Though I usually loathe this kind of touring, today I am grateful as my companions are genial and I am easing into socializing with no problem. Ale and I order a delicious local red wine, which goes well with my salad of arugula, goat cheese, dried tomatoes, and croutons accompanied by impeccable homemade bread and dark green, virgin olive oil. The conversation is warm and witty and once we’re sated, we’re on the road again.
Back at the San Jorge, its beyond cold now and I go to sleep under mounds of blankets with all my clothes on. I like this cowboy feeling, and it’s so dry that one feels clean. My roommate is leaving for Bolivia in a half hour, so in the end I have the room to myself. The last thing I see before my eyes close are my dusty boots by the bedside, commemorating my trip and voyages to come.
Riding in the front on the bus on the top level, I’ve got legroom and an unobstructed view. We leave at 7:15 with the site of farmland running to the base of the sloping green mountains. We make our way slowly behind creeping camions, but there is no rush to anywhere.
It is a wonderful life, the sense of rising into these mountains, free as these condors and with not too much in my head. I’m riding into each adventure as it comes, feeling present, with a magisterial landscape up close and personal: flowing, moving, non-static waves of mountain landscape, seemingly indestructible and eternal.
I arrive in Humahuaca and it seems that I’ve been magically guided, as the Hostel El Sol is inviting and rustic. My bed upstairs is in a beautiful light-filled space, which I later will share with a French guy, but mostly I am alone here. The bed is firm, the blankets are warm, and the place is spotless. The common area is filled with folk music and warm vibes as well as the welcoming energy of Ramon, the owner.
Artesenas Sasakuy. This is a cooperative of artists who study and create hand-dyed woven items, jewelry, paintings, clothing, and more. There are old regional rugs and throws, and many local artifacts. I’m shown around by a weaver and instructor who tells me about how the dyes are made (from plants) and how a woman’s life is woven into her shawl: emblems of family, work, locale, deaths and births, until all her life’s events eventually fills the formerly black material. He speaks about the local people’s concept of death and how it represents transformation and is considered a part of a continuing cycle, rather than something absolute. He speaks about the concept of abundance: that rather than money or possessions, to the people of the northern desert climes, abundance is water, whether in the form of rain or tears. Water is life. Later I meet his wife, a folk dance teacher and dancer and we speak about movement and I promise I will take her class the next day.
On the way down I meet two artisans, one from Chile and one from Bolivia, who are selling macramé and copper jewelry. I buy a necklace, so delicate with a palpable movement woven into its design. Both artists are in their mid-20s, with a young child each. They both speak of family and I note the great sense of belongingness among these people. Loved ones are never far away.
That evening I go to Tantanankuy with Ana, a Portuguese girl who is staying in the hostel. We walk up and up towards this cultural center created by the musician, Jaime Torres as I have an introduction to his daughter from a mutual friend. As we stroll, a young guy on a bicycle stops to chat and invites us to his home to share a maté. I am curious to see how he lives, so we follow him up through an alley into an unadorned cinder block structure where his two roommates lounge under blankets. Artisans, they are young, gracious gentlemen proud to have us there, offering us tea.
The Peña at Tantanankuy is lovely with two musicians, one playing a wooden flute and the other guitar, singing beautiful sambas and chacareras. I eat a deliciously fresh caprese with goat cheese and meet Claudia Torres who invites me back the next day to meet her young folk dance students. Ana and I stay for several hours, warmed by the nearby wood stove, and then descend to the town and back up to our hostel, inhaling the crystalline air as we gaze try to catch the dripping stars.
There is no rush to do anything. I awaken and lazily do some chores, washing clothes and putting them on the line, eating breakfast, and chatting with Ramon and his daughter Sol as well as some French travelers who had just arrived.
I spend the day resting in the sun, going to the market to buy bananas and dried apples and a large shopping bag that the local grannies use. I buy several bags of herbs for Pachamama ceremonies in August to share with friends at home as well as ointments and unguents from Peru, Bolivia: fat of the viper, the iguana, the mule, and more.
Back on the plaza steps, watching the world go by. There were great crowds in the square by the church at noon, all gathered to see the automated wooden monk emerge from on high to raise his forearm and bless the masses below, cross raised in other hand. Ave Maria played. It was a Fellini moment, and then the figure receded into the church once again.
I sit in the sun with a beautiful artisan selling copper jewelry (a “noble” metal) and buy a ring that embraces a diamond shaped amethyst along with a wide Grecian style bracelet to soothe my sometime computer-wrist pain. These pieces look commanding on my hand, as a ruling queen would have it.
The early evening takes me back to Tantanankuy where Claudia and I have tea and wait for the village children to arrive for their folk dance class. Claudia teaches these kids for free, sometimes having them stay the night for a pajama party where they cook, sing, and dance. She is a real Pachamama, giving these children a place to go where they may not have one, as well as a purpose and a passion.
The kids arrive, the beautiful, fresh lot of them, all chat and laughter and one lovely girl makes up a copla for me, a traditional Argentine song pattern with original lyrics. I take the class with them, everyone giggling all the way through. I’m smiling from ear to ear and we all stay on for tea and cookies until it is dark and the kids must go. Claudia shows me videos of some of the traditional festivals from the north: Semana Santa and Dia de los Muertos where the men dress as skeletons and the women as life itself. The traditions here are strong and continue through time.
From here I go to Mariela’s folk dancing class back at Sasakuy where we dance Chacarera, Argentine Samba, and Saya from Bolivia. Her husband serves us a strong, sweet, warming liqueur and we dance like banshees amongst the art on the walls. Walking home under the dangling stars, all quiet and peaceful. Back in my bed, with the room to myself, I fall into a deep night of dreams.
Once in Tilcara, I land at El Albahaca, another welcoming hostel run by Dani and Delia where I share a room with three girls who will return tonight.
In the main plaza I eat a sizzling tortilla, filled with cheese and veggies, sitting on a bench with a little dog as my companion. Tilcara is lovely, filled with tourists and shops that cater to them, but with taste and a sense of northern Argentine downplay. There are no harsh noises, no garish moments to jar one out of mountain reverie. It is easy to walk around, to feel relaxed, to take in the mood.
Up and up beyond my hostel lies the ancient civilization of Pulcará. These are the ruins of a pre-Incan community that predates the Spanish invasion. I enter and walk the winding path through the cordones and piles of rectangular and square stones that comprise the walls and homes, stones that mirror the shades of the mountains in pale green, mauve, beige, and gray.
I am high up overlooking the valley below, the mountains rising sharp around me. The sensation of this other world, homes expanding and diminishing in size as a family ebbed and flowed, silent hearths and alters, give the place a silent magic and power.
I have a tea and inquire and at once a taxi appears and I am whisked away over the stony roadway, across the dry riverbed, and through a mountain pass to a wooded world. I walk a short path and into the root and clutter of the artist, Emilio Haro Gallo, who seems to be a legend in these parts, as I will see his paintings over and over again wherever I go.
In the evening I take myself to a highly recommended restaurant just a few hundred meters from the hostel. With its deep orange interior, low couches and tables, and walls full of beautiful artifacts I have a stupendous meal of cubed llama cooked in dark beer with small baked Andean potatoes and a Quilmes beer. My dinner mate, a small black cat, sits daintily upright on the floor beside me waiting for my offerings. After dinner I take a long walk in the cold night, wondering at the stars and the enormity of life and its possibilities. Energized by the altitude, oxygen, and my thoughts, it was not a night for sleep.
Here in Purmamarca is the “Cerro de Siete Colores”, or the hill of seven colors. The hill is really a series of mountains that rise in waves of undulating striations in mauve, green, beige, grey, and colors in between. Standing on top of an opposing hill, I take the obligatory photos and then headed back to Tilcara, exhausted.
That evening I am told to arrive very early for a seat at the popular Peña de Carlitos, so I planted myself two hours early with a book and a picada of fresh goat’s cheese. Opposite me hangs a painting by the ubiquitous Emilo, this time a dreamy man with a devil’s mask on his shoulder. The hours pass and I order a warming stew of corn and other vegetables including sweetish Andean potatoes along with fragrant herbs and grated cheese. By the time the first musician appears I am ready for horizontality, but I stay a bit longer to hear his deep and expressive voice singing odes to nearby towns in the North. Reluctantly I leave and weave my path towards bed.