Caturday 5/11/13


We interrupt this regularly scheduled Caturday to introduce you to your new favorite cat: Princess Monster Truck.

She’s a real live cat in Brooklyn, which means she’s real and hip.

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She was born that way, yes, and is the poster child for cat rescue. Her super cool owners found her on the street and couldn’t leave her there. They are awesome.

You can find her Instagram here.

You. are. welcome.

Quick Skillet Apples


I’m not a syrup fan. Give me your pancakes, your biscuits, your rows of square waffle wells yearning to be filled with liquid sugar… and I will eat them plain. Correction: with butter.

When I was a kid I ate dry Leggo waffles straight out of the toaster and these days I’m all about piling warm cinnamon apples atop my healthyass pancakes.

It’s the kind of thing you might expect your grandmother to spend a day slow-simmering, but since I give myself approximately 11 minutes to get dressed, eat, and tend to cats in the morning, please believe I’ve found a faster way.

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As with much of what I do, there’s not a whole lot of science here. But I do have a method that consistently delivers perfectly spiced, soft-but-not-squishy skillet apples.

Quick Skillet Apples
Prep time: 
Cook time: 
Total time: 

Serves: 1

  • 1 apple, diced
  • nonstick spray
  • water, just a splash
  • cinnamon, sprinkle
  • nutmeg, sprinkle
  • 1 tablespoon milk (I use soymilk creamer)

  1. Warm a skillet over med-high heat. (I usually use the one my pancake was just prepared in.)
  2. Spray with nonstick spray (I use coconut oil spray) and toss in apples
  3. Give them a couple minutes to start to brown before sprinkling on a little cinnamon and nutmeg
  4. Once the spices are on, add a splash of water (maybe 2 tablespoons) to create a dramatic steaming effect
  5. Let the apples cook until the water evaporates
  6. Add your nondairy milk or creamer and cook until almost evaporated but still moist


That’s it! Easy sleazy. Sweet but not sickeningly so. Better than syrup. Pancake time.

Worth versus Weight


I remember very clearly the first time I became acutely aware of everything wrong with my body. I was in second grade carpooling to school with a neighbor. She hopped in the van, rolled her eyes and said with exasperation, “UGH, I hate how the fat pools out under my thighs when I sit down. Don’t you?” I’d truly never thought about it before. I thought about sunburns in the summer and bad shoes causing blisters, and that was about as far as my body consciousness went. To be fair, I had an older brother and we were slightly more concerned about defeating Bowzer than making sure my thighs weren’t touching. Perhaps girls with big sisters were exposed to this earlier.

But sitting there next to her that morning, suddenly restless atop my own pool of fat, I decided that, yes, I did hate my thighs. And so began a lifelong battle of worth versus weight.

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I hid myself most of the time. Baggy t-shirts and stretchy leggings. Oversized overalls and one-piece bathing suits well into middle school when all the other girls were in bikinis with their new boobs. I never vocalized my own dissatisfaction but I soaked everyone else’s up like an insecure sponge. Every problem someone had with their body, I applied to my own. Thighs too big. Boobs to small. Hair too frizzy. Butt too flat. Tummy too soft. It was never-ending.

With adulthood (and education and a strong yoga practice) came a new appreciation of and respect for my body as a powerful machine worthy of good food and exercise and love. But not before years of starvation, compulsive exercise and all around disordered behavior.

Things are better now. I’m not always nice to myself, but I am hyper-cautious to keep those thoughts to myself. Because the second I vocalize my own insecurities, I run the risk of laying that burden on someone who would otherwise perhaps not have to bear it. And that’s a responsibility I take seriously.

I run in the fitness industry now. And while this biz has its fair share of warm fuzzies and body love and girl power, it is also infected with a viral spread of self-loathing. You hear it in the locker rooms and in the lobbies, on the mats under their breath: I hate my [insert body part here].

It breaks my heart to hear people talk like this, not only because of the havoc they’re wreaking on their own psyche but because of where else those powerful words might land–on the ears of an otherwise confident child or on the heart of an already burdened and insecure soul.

It has taken me a lifetime to decide that this hate doesn’t have to be my own. And I would encourage you to affirm that it isn’t yours either.

Caturday 5/4/13


So. Yesterday I wore a cat-print dress, and a 15-pound tub of kitty litter exploded in my trunk. This clearly sucks (the explosion, not my awesome dress), but if you want to talk silver linings I’m now thinking about starting a mobile litter box service with the aftermath. Or at least making a snazzy Pinterest DIY portable litter box tutorial with stupid sparkles on it…

Tired of scooping poop? Sick of your house smelling like poop? Gonna literally kill someone if you step in one more pile of kitty litter when you step out of the shower? Wish your cat could just frigging poop into a receptacle that then drives as far away from your house as possible?


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portable litter box

That’s not even the best part of yesterday. My hard drive also crashed. Like a damn lead balloon. I bought a new one (obviously, because I can’t function without a computer) but made good use of my six computer-less hours by watching Dr. Oz and painting my nails red. It was a big day.


Without my knowledge, Ralph and Weaz launched a Caturday photo contest on twitter.

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After reviewing dozens of entries, they decided to feature one favorite:

This is Boo dressed like Catman.


If you have a cat you want to feature on #CATURDAY, you can submit photos to @ralphandweaz.

They also wanted everyone to know that the results of their brother Wedgie’s DNA test finally came in and it’s official:

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Easy Pizza

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I’m on a major mini pizza kick right now, and I will not apologize.

I don’t know why pizza gets such a bad rap in the healthy-eating world. Perhaps it’s the American bastardization of a once tasteful Italian original into a gratuitous, cheese-stuffed orgy of cheese. Yeah, I said cheese-stuffed orgy of cheese. It was not a typo.

I mean, just look at this monstrosity:

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That’s correct. Pizza Hut has added petal-like appendages to their Crazy Cheesy Crust pizza to increase the surface area, thus allowing for the addition of, you guessed it, more cheese. It’s kind of like how your small intestine has finger-like appendages called villi and microvilli to increase surface area, thus increasing the absorption of vitamins and nutrients… except the complete opposite. Calm down, Pizza Hut.

Should you eat a Crazy Cheesy Crust pizza every day? Never. Have I been eating these little quick and easy mini pizzas every day? YOU BET YOUR CHEESE-LOVIN’ BUTT I HAVE.


I use a whole-wheat tortilla as my crust, which I toast in the oven at 350 degrees until it’s crispy. Then I top that with a “sauce” of sorts (usually hummus or mashed avocado) and toppings galore.

My favorite iteration thus far was definitely today’s with:

  • hummus
  • sauteed spinach
  • chickpea salad (from Trader Joe’s)
  • soysage (I know, I know)

But yesterday’s was preeeetty impressive, too:

  • hummus + avocado mash
  • sauteed kale
  • roasted chickpeas and broccoli
  • tempeh

Next I will try to make one of these: