White Jacket Required (6 page)

So I invested in a good pair of sneakers and hit the pavement. My new apartment was conveniently located right next to the largest mall in Orlando, which provided an ample track to run around. Classes still hadn't started, and with my evening hours at Roy's, I had more than enough time to get moving in the morning. Truthfully, I never really enjoyed running as much as I enjoyed a sweaty yoga class, but I loved the feeling after a run when I made it into my apartment, cheeks red and sweat prickling my neck, to rummage through the cabinets for breakfast. I always ran slowly with my iPod on and usually stopped every few minutes for a short walk break. Walking hindered my speed, of course, but it made the whole process more enjoyable.

I started running by myself because it wasn't really Helen's thing; plus we were operating on completely different schedules. Her hours ran her ragged until early in the morning, and sometimes she slept until two in the afternoon to make up for lost sleep. So I would sneak out quietly in the mornings, making sure to close the door softly and lock it on my way out. One morning, after my standard two-mile jog, I returned and found her sitting on the bar stool in her pajamas, eyes red and hair a sight.

“You look awful. Did everything go okay last night at work?” I asked as I took a long swig of cold water and then poured myself a cup of coffee.

“They tazed me,” she said. “I knew it was coming, and it's just standard job training, but, man, did it ever hurt.” Helen stuck out her right arm, which was now covered in angry red welts.

“Man, I'm so sorry. I guess you know how the bad guys feel now though, huh?”

Helen gave a dry laugh and drained her coffee cup. “This was bad, but it didn't hurt nearly as bad as when they maced me during initial training. Now that killed.”

I gave her a sympathetic look, even though I had absolutely no idea how it felt to be tormented in that way. I still couldn't believe she was actually doing this. It just seemed . . . wrong.

“Anyway, my arm hurt so badly that I couldn't sleep and I was going to suggest going somewhere for breakfast, but when I woke up you had already gone on your run. I was too hungry to wait!”

“Aw, don't worry about it. I've gotta run to school soon anyway to pick up my knife set, so I'm a little short on time,” I said as I opened the fridge to grab the low-fat milk and a bowl of fresh blackberries. Five minutes later, I was chowing down on a hot bowl of Scottish oatmeal, laced with honey and studded with the juicy berries. Helen had poured herself another cup of coffee and retreated to the couch, where she flipped on the Food Network. I kicked off my running shoes and thought about all I had to do that day to get ready for school.

After a few weeks, although I still didn't enjoy running, I felt myself get better at it, which I liked. My runs became part of my routine, and I found that after I ran, my days were always a little better and I slept deeper, too. On a whim, I decided to enter the Gasparilla Half Marathon four months later in Tampa. I'd never actually run a race before, but I liked the idea of having a goal in mind and something to train for while I cooked my days away in classroom kitchens. Even though I've always considered myself a spontaneous person, routine appealed to me, and I enjoyed having a plan and a schedule. I didn't know anyone else who was running the race, but I quickly found a training plan online that suited my frequent walk breaks and slower style. The plan had me increasing my mileage by one mile every week and incorporating cross-training, such as yoga.

By the third week of the new plan, though, my shins began to hurt. They started aching only a few minutes after I left the apartment, but usually got better toward the middle of my run. The pain was dull and annoying, and I started to apply ice packs after every run right as soon as I got back inside. I hated the ice and the way it felt like both shins were swollen and bruised deep within, but I still struggled to keep up with my training. On one particular 5-mile run, the pain became so sharp and strong that I actually had to stop and walk back. I decided to take two weeks off and wore Ace bandages and Tiger Balm pads on my shins, underneath my chef pants, when I was at school. I never saw a doctor, but I read online that the best thing to do was apply ice twice a day, every day. I iced three times a day because I was on my feet all day and all night between school and work, and I figured a little extra treatment couldn't hurt.

Two weeks later, I laced up my running shoes again, this time with a tight Ace bandage on my right shin and an ibuprofen already in my system. I opened my apartment door and felt a shock of cool late-October air as I warmed up and stretched. It was 6:30 in the morning, and the city was still very much asleep, with the exception of the bright lights moving on the interstate behind the apartment. I walked out of my complex and turned my walk into a slow jog as I headed to my usual around-the-mall loop. Not even five minutes later, my right shin felt like it was pulsating beneath the bandage. The pain made me angry, and I gritted my teeth and pushed myself forward, trying to focus on what I would be cooking later that day or the ingredients in a new pasta dish I wanted to test out.
Milk, tarragon, garlic, shallots, ooooouch!
I cursed silently, slowing my jog to a walk. I had put time, effort, and money into training for this race, and even though it hurt, I really didn't want to quit.
Plenty of people run with ailments
, I told myself.
Don't be such a wuss. Think of something nice . . . like bread or dark chocolate or baked feta cheese. This too shall pass.

I picked up my speed and continued around the mall, the sun slowly starting to turn orange in the sky and mall employees emerging from their parked cars with hot coffees in their hands. I glanced down at my heart-rate monitor watch, which also tracked my distance. One point seven five miles, it blinked.
One point seven five?
I felt like I had been going now for at least three. My leg hurt and my mind started spinning. Why was I doing this anyway? I never really liked running to begin with, and there were plenty of other ways I could stay in shape without joining a gym, like power yoga and long walks. I thought of the hot coffee bubbling in the machine back at the apartment and the creamy Greek yogurt and homemade granola that would serve as my finishing prize.
Okay, Jenna . . . 4 miles left. You can do this . . . it's nothing!
With my mind made up, I pushed away all thoughts of my aching shin and my eventual breakfast and set my full attention on the road before me.

What felt like hours later, I returned to my front door, huffing and puffing with a shiny new blister poking out of my heel. Later that week, after spending a little more time online researching shin splints, I decided to seek out a special foot doctor who could maybe give me some professional training advice. Both Helen and Rob thought I was completely crazy to keep on running when it caused me so much pain, and I was beginning to feel the same way. I hoped that this new doctor could shed some light on the situation.

“Miss Weber, you have two options,” Dr. Richards said, as I sat on the wrinkled white paper that covered the exam table. “Stop running, or learn to run through the pain. The pain isn't going to kill you, and there's only a very slim chance it will actually cause something more serious, like a stress fracture.”

I just stared at him. “You mean . . . just run through it? Run through the pain? That's the answer?” I'd thought he was going to tell me about some treatment or low-cost therapy program that would diminish the pain.

“Yep. If you want. It's up to you. After looking at these X-rays and measuring your feet, I can see exactly what your problem is: your hips are off balance. This is causing more stress to be put on the right foot and, thus, giving you shin splits. There's really nothing we can do except prescribe you some orthotics that may or may not work. The best advice I can give you, as both a doctor and a fellow runner, is that you should keep at it. There might be pain, but you're an athlete and athletes deal with pain.”

This was definitely not the answer I was hoping for. An athlete? Sure, I was training for a race, but I never actually considered myself an athlete. I was a cook and a wannabe food writer. I chopped chicken, sautéed garlic and, in my spare time, wrote poems. I wasn't an athlete by any stretch.

“Okay . . . well, thanks anyway. Hopefully it'll get better . . . .” I said, leaving the office in a hurry and calling Rob on my way out.

“He said to run through it! Run through the pain!! That's ridiculous!” I said angrily into the phone as I searched for my car in the doctor's parking lot.

“He said what? That's stupid, Jenna. I don't care what that quack says; you're really going to hurt yourself long term if you keep running like that. I can't believe he actually said that!”

I balanced the phone against my shoulder, fastened my seatbelt, and started the car, letting the air conditioning blast on my face to calm me down. “I mean . . . I don't want to quit, you know? I don't know . . . I guess I'll just see how it goes. I have to go—I'll call you later!”

I clicked my phone shut and started to think. Was the race really worth it? Was running even really worth it? If I didn't run, I'd probably have to spend at least fifty bucks a month joining a gym or doing more yoga classes, but then at least I wouldn't always be in pain. Still, part of me wanted to just finish what I started. It might hurt, but at least I wouldn't be a quitter.

I took three days off and then hit the pavement again. Afterward, it hurt to walk, and in the middle of the night when I got up to use the bathroom, I almost fell over. I hated the way my body felt weak and incapable. Finally, on yet another five-mile run, I called it quits. As much as I hated to admit it, there was no way in the world I could run thirteen miles if I couldn't make it through five without throbbing pain. I stumbled back into the house, threw my shoes in the closet, and called Rob to tell him I was done.

“I honestly think you made the right decision,” he said. “I mean, why cause yourself that amount of pain? It's just a race!”

I sighed. “Yeah, I know. I just wanted to do it to prove something to myself, I guess. Oh well . . . there's always yoga!” I laughed sarcastically.

“To be honest, I never really saw you as a runner anyway, Jenna. You're always on the go and running from one place to the next, between work, culinary school, and shuttling from one city to the other . . . but running races? It's never really seemed like you. Do something that makes you feel good inside
and
out—that's the Jenna I know!”

Rob was always good with the pep talks.

“Hmm, I kinda like that,” I said. “I can still be a ‘runner,' but not in the literal sense of the word. I'll just keep running around, and eating, and living!”

After hanging up the phone, I wandered into the kitchen. As much as I knew it was the right decision to stop training for the race, I still felt like I was letting myself down a little bit. I grabbed a potato from the pantry and started peeling it over the sink, preparing to make a potato pancake for breakfast. Once I had the potato all peeled and smooth, I cut it into two and started grating each half on my old box grater over a piece of wax paper. Then, I dumped the grated potato into a large metal bowl, added sea salt, pepper, and a beaten egg, and formed the blob into a large shaggy pancake that I seared in a hot skillet coated with vegetable oil. It smelled like French fries and made me remember all the times my mom made potato pancakes at home, topping them with a spoonful of chunky applesauce and serving them alongside grilled pork tenderloin.

“Mmm, what's that smell?” Helen asked as she came into the kitchen.

“I was craving potato pancakes for some reason,” I replied. “Want half?”

“Yeah, if you don't mind! That looks awesome.”

I sprinkled a little additional sea salt on the now crisped and browned pancake and handed Helen half on a plate. “Want applesauce?” I asked her as I opened the fridge and grabbed the jar of Musselman's.

“No thanks, I'm good.” She took a bite and widened her eyes. “Yum! Jenna, this is delicious!”

I put a big spoonful of applesauce on top of my pancake and dug in as well, relishing the sweet and salty combination. For a moment, I forgot all about the stress of running and concentrated on what really mattered to me, which was food and cooking. I might never be a runner, but maybe I could be a real food writer someday with a little training.

Potato Pancake for the Blues

Makes one jumbo pancake

Best made and eaten while wearing fuzzy pajamas and slippers. Things just taste better that way.

1 large russet potato

½ teaspoon sea salt

¼ teaspoon ground black pepper

1 egg, lightly beaten

1 tablespoon canola oil for light frying

Applesauce or sour cream for topping

Peel the potato and grate using a box grater. Season with sea salt and pepper and add the beaten egg, mixing everything until well combined.

Heat the canola oil in a large cast-iron skillet over medium-high heat. When oil is sizzling, gently drop in the potato batter and fry until golden brown and crispy, about 3 minutes per side.

Remove and serve immediately with applesauce or sour cream (or both!), alongside pork or eggs.

Slow-Cooker Pulled Pork

Serves 6–8

Be sure to grab Lawry's Baja Chipotle Marinade for this slow-cooker classic. It lends a zesty spice that's irresistible! Leftovers can be kept in the fridge for up to four days.

2 pounds pork shoulder (ask your butcher if you don't see it on the shelf)

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon ground mustard

¼ teaspoon cayenne pepper

½ onion, chopped

½ bottle Lawry's Baja Chipotle Marinade