Yogurt

         

Occasionally when I was a little girl my dad would do the grocery shopping. I loved to go with him because he would let me buy something new that I’d never had before. I was about six when I tried – and loved - picked herring, or what I called “Harry Pickle”.

          Yesterday I bought a new kind of yogurt: Siggi’s Icelandic style skyr strained non-fat yogurt. Oh my God, it’s heaven on earth.  Thick, rich, not too sweet, sweetened with agave nectar, - hmm, isn’t agave used to make tequila? - no gelatin. And as it says on the inside of the label (which peels off easily so you’re left with a pristine white cup that I’m dying to find a use for), “We source our milk from family farms in New York state where the cows are not injected with any kind of growth hormone and graze freely when weather permits.”  How can I not love these people?

          I remember when yogurt was a “health food” and my dad bought clear glass jars of plain Yami Yogurt at the health food store in Pacific Palisades, next door to Lyle Fox Gym where he worked out, and the first gym I ever joined.  I, like my dad, enjoyed the biting taste, which was similar to buttermilk that he taught me to drink sprinkled with salt and pepper. Yum!

          My friend Katherine’s mother was “into” healthy foods before it was fashionable, too. After school, going to her house, my favorite treat was plain yogurt with dark purple grape juice and wheat germ.

          Katherine and I were in Mrs. Herbst’s science class where she used her bully pulpit to educate us about nutrition. “I don’t have white sugar in my house!” she told us. She was a bit like Julia Child, quite tall, with an expressive soprano voice. I was fascinated, learning about vitamins - particularly the Bs which are dependent on one another. I bought books by Adele Davis so I could use the tables in the back to track my intake of protein, fat, carbohydrates. In those days we were told to eat 70 grams of protein a day, and that breakfast was the most important meal.

          Because I had access to my parents’ studio and cameras and loved to dress up, Katherine and I made a card for Mrs. Herbst at the end of the semester. On the front was a picture of the two of us in leotards, slouched, frowning, stomachs pushed out. We mussed our hair and put dark circles under our eyes. “Before we took your class we knew nothing about health,” the caption said.  Inside was the “after” photo with us standing straight, perfect posture, hair combed, smiling and the caption  “Thank you!” I loved that teacher.

          Soon yogurt became a popular food.  At the liquor store across from State Beach, we’d buy strawberry yogurt and eat it as dessert after out hamburgers and Cheetos, which we rationalized must be good for us because they were made with cheese.

          In a few years I’d be a long-haired flower child living in Mount Shasta.  I’d drive an hour down to Redding and buy whole-wheat flour to bake my own bread, oats to make my own granola. I’d eat maple sugar or carob candy and drink Yerba Matte tea. No meat! Lots of sprouts.

          Nowadays I’m still concerned with what goes in my mouth and am glad there is a huge variety of foods to choose from. I’m one of those women who stands in the aisles reading labels, putting back more than I buy. I’m grateful to my parents and Mrs. Herbst for raising me right, and friends like Katherine with whom I share a love of good, wholesome food. I’m proud that she is working tirelessly to bring information about this subject to the “greater world” in her new book Growing Roots, The New Generation of Sustainable Farmers, Cooks and Food Activists. Check it out: www.growingroots.info