If I ever wind up on death row, I’ll get the best wood-fired traditional pizza ever as my last meal and hope the execution happens quickly before the celiac makes me wish it already had.
There are other gluten-free pizza options, and, let’s face it, I’m not interesting enough to do anything likely to get me a parking ticket, let alone sentenced to death row. So I need alternatives, people.
Some decades ago I read a book about a very proper woman, who maintained that each nail on a well-groomed hand should have a perfect half moon at the base. Not to have them indicated you were some sort of cultural slacker.
I thought ‘is this some crazy habit like having your purse match your shoes?’– or perhaps a genetic anomaly, like twinsets, duck boots, pearls and Lilly Pulitzer?
I have been on a hunt for some pain relief that will not compromise my liver. I figured I’d start from the outside in. I’ve had enough drama involving insides lately, and wanted to give them a break.
While topical creams can avoid gastric complications, some contain ingredients, which when absorbed through the skin, can have the same side effects as those taken internally. You have to be doubly careful if you are using such a cream while also taking an oral pain reliever with similar ingredients.
I have lately added some new oils to my life, one a particularly brain-healthy one called PC, or phosphatidylcholine. My doctor told me to be particularly careful about brand here, and not to substitute cheaper versions for the PC oils made by Body Bio, Xymogen, or Nutrasal. Rather than using something cheaper, the doc said to take as much as I could afford of a good brand.
PC oil is a highly refined replacement for something you body naturally produces. It has similarities to, but is NOT the same as, lethicin and unlike the waxy candle-tasting beads of my fab ’70s childhood when my grandmother took that stuff with everything — and shoved it into me too if I didn’t disappear fast enough — PC oil is water-soluble, and apparently very hard to make. Continue reading Seed cream — and the PK Protocol
More of the tale of fixing the troubles I mention in last post: here is a drink from Peru that does wonders for my blood numbers (A1C is excellent these days), and is said to have many health benefits. For me, it’s a superb anti-inflammatory. Not bad with pisco or vodka either, but I’m off the hard stuff for a whole. And, yes, I had pineapple trimmings in that same freezer of doom. Why, you might ask, do I beg pineapple trimmings off people who eat pineapples? This drink.
This is made of purple corn, some pineapple peelings, and usually apples. Add spices and simmer for about an hour, until the drink is very deeply-colored. It’s a glass full of antioxidants. Just don’t spill it. It stains like heck.
I got the recipe from a Peruvian friend, and then tried to amp up the antioxidant value with some additions. No effect on taste, as the spices are pretty forward. Continue reading Chicha Morada
I had a couple of bad weekends recently because of drug and supplement reactions. As it turns out, diclofenac, the NSAID I take for pain, doesn’t get along at all with my blood pressure med (candesartan) or with the coumarin in the cinnamon I used to use. I usually don’t use much diclofenac, so the drug didn’t have the opportunity to react with the rest of my daily doses until I had some significant pain.
Dave Asprey, who first introduced the idea of bulletproof coffee in 2009, is a person with serious IT street cred, having worked for Trend Micro, Blue Coat and Citrix. According to some sources, he was also among the first to think of putting the caffeine molecule on a tee-shirt. Awesome.
Despite my admiration for his tech chops, the idea of putting butter in coffee seemed a bit, er — yakky — pun intended. Then, I tried it. It tastes pretty good!
I recently had a heavy-metal test (no, not that kind — the sort that detects blood toxins) and found my lead levels were very high. The test’s written interpretation suggested that my life’s work might be as a welder, or someone who works in a battery factory.
A couple of years earlier, I found my blood showed a high level of MTBE, which, as my doctor said, indicated that my life’s work might be pumping gas at a gas station. (Aside: I moved to a state where it’s illegal to pump your own gas, only because I hate the smell so much. So, I don’t think sitting in the driver’s seat while someone puts gas in my jalopy once a month is a high health risk.)