Protein and Beauty

what we need most

I was scrolling through the old essays on my website the other day, noticing how the stories I’ve written over the years touch on the same seasonal themes, again and again. Birthday cakes in February, March and August. Stories inspired by the snow of January, February and March. Tears at Christmas. The overindulgence of the holidays, offset by wintry greens sautéed in garlic. Football cleats in the dining room. The cheerful pops of pink from pickled red onions, thinly sliced radishes and soft pink chicories in the dull days of April. There are grandmother stories, mother stories, father stories, kid stories, sister stories and friend stories. The joys of a small urban garden. Cosmos. Climbing squash and tiny melons that look like fairy lights, strung up along the fence. Renovation dust. 

It feels good to have constants in life, knowing that as I grow and change, some things will stay the same. 

So here we go with a scene from a day in late March: fat snowflakes swirl outside the kitchen window. I’m in a snow globe. But wait, now the sun is breaking through. In a few months tiger lilies will line the edge of the fence. But for now they are just pale green fingers reaching through wet leaves. The house is in shambles. Electricians are drilling holes in every wall of every room in an effort to replace our knob and tube wiring. There is dust and rubble on all surfaces. I vacuumed my pillow last night. 

It could also be a version of last March, or the March before. But this time, there’s a twist. Instead of making soup like the scene might predict, I’m building a plate of food, just for me, with a focus on protein. This is the twist: I am now a fifty year-old woman with a dwindling supply of estrogen. I’ve read that as estrogen wanes, the need to take care of others wanes as well. So today I’m taking care of myself with things that women in this season of life need: protein, healthy fats, probiotics, vegetables and a touch of beauty.

While scrolling through my archives I found a recipe for a ricotta loaf seasoned with fresh herbs, lemon and a generous pinch of sea salt. Today I tried to break the recipe down to a quick two egg scramble by adding a spoonful of ricotta, a few tablespoons of grated parmesan, a pinch of salt, a sprinkle of dried thyme and the zest of a lemon. I cooked the eggs low and slow, stirring continuously so the eggs barely touched the bottom. I plated the eggs with smoked salmon, a spoonful of sauerkraut, a sprinkle of peppery sprouts and a

Camille Becerra

inspired smear of cream cheese. 

The archived recipe was wrapped inside a story called Softness.¹ I was mending a cashmere sweater at the time and knitting a turtleneck scarf using a ball of creamy white wool and a blend of alpaca and mulberry silk called ‘cumulus.’ I was also reflecting back on a life coaching session, when a roomful of women were guided through an exercise where we were asked to imagine our future self, notice who and where she was, and to listen, carefully, to what she had to say:

The room was pale and soft, as if everything was coated in a fuzzy, cumulus cloud. My future self moved throughout the space slowly, pouring steaming water into a teapot and pulling mugs from a shelf. On the other side of the kitchen light poured through an open door and there were hints of a garden seeping through the glow. She didn’t speak, but I could feel her message wrap around me: do not worry about what you should do. Create what you love, take your time, come sit with me.

Others in the room had future selves who were triathletes, physicians, school principals, business owners, sky-divers. But there I was, drinking tea. I don’t know how far into the future I had travelled; I couldn’t see her face, her lines, the colour of her hair. Her form didn’t imply listlessness or lack of purpose. But she did want me to know that softness can be harnessed, if you move gently.

I am still trying to harness softness, albeit in a different way. It wraps across my abdomen and sits, cloud-like, on my hips. Waning estrogen, likely, is to blame. My future self didn’t speak to this phase of life specifically. But I know she would tell me to go into the kitchen, make some eggs, the soft kind that barely touch the pan, and serve them with a splash of colour on a beautiful plate. 

1. Softness - You can find the essay and recipe here.