Half the Mother, Twice the Love: My Journey to Better Health with Diabetes - Softcover

Love, Mother

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0743277643 ISBN 13: 9780743277648

Publisher: Atria, 2006

Synopsis

As a talk-show host and inspirational speaker, Mother Love used to have to just grin and bear it -- all that extra weight and the poor health that went along with it. Today she can truly smile as she serves up sound advice with big portions of humor in her new book about better living and good health that can turn your life around just like it did hers. Half the Mother, Twice the Love tells about the major weight loss Mother Love achieved over the last three years to reverse the decline in her health and regain control over her life. She went from size 22 to size 10 using a multitiered approach that included exercise, diet, and other lifestyle adjustments, and all her secrets are here in this informative and uplifting book.

Half the Mother, Twice the Love speaks to everyone who wants the good life without the bad habits that can make us tired, overweight, and eventually ruin our health. Part memoir and part self-help, this book teaches you how to learn from the mistakes which almost cost Mother Love her life. In the end, she may be half the woman she used to be, but she can give twice as much love as ever.

About this title

About the Author:

Mother Love is a popular talk-show host on CNBC¹s dLife, author, and motivational speaker. Known as the ³Queen of Advice,² her previous books include Listen Up, Girlfriends! and Forgive or Forget. Cochair of the American Diabetes Association¹s African American Task Force, she lives in Pasadena, California.

Tonya Bolden has authored and coauthored more than twenty books. She also worked with Mother Love on her book Forgive or Forget and with Eartha Kitt on Rejuvenate! (It's Never Too Late). To learn more about her work visit www.tonyabolden.com.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

- 1 -

Grocery Shopping Was Disneyland

My dad was in the kitchen at o'dark-thirty on Sunday mornings, organizing cayenne, black pepper, salt, paprika, and other spices; mincing garlic, onion, bell pepper; and cubing pork, pork fat, and beef. He was in his glory -- making his signature link sausages.

If six- or seven-year-old me scrambled up and begged to help, Daddy let me add a pinch of this or that, mix

the meat with my little hands, and maybe, just maybe, hold casings as he fed the meat mix into the grinder.

That sausage was the centerpiece of our Sunday breakfast, likely to include grits, slab bacon, salmon croquettes, buttermilk biscuits, smothered potatoes, and fresh-squeezed OJ.

Around seven thirty, Momma had her brood heading out the door, primed to put our nickels in the offering plate and sing Jesus-loves-me hymns. In addition to me, that brood consisted of Paula, two and a half years older than me; Michael, fifteen months my junior; Fred, nineteen months younger than Michael; Marcia, eleven months younger than Fred; and Brenda, eleven months younger than Marcia.

Daddy stayed behind to clean up the kitchen and then go back to bed with Ohio's oldest black newspaper, the legendary Cleveland Call & Post. Whenever anyone questioned why he didn't go to church but insisted that his children attend faithfully, he said, "Well, just in case there is a GOD, I want my children to be protected."

There was no such thing as a typical Sunday dinner in our home. Each one had to be different -- if not better -- than the last. You wouldn't catch us having roast chicken on back-to-back Sundays. Chicken, maybe, but not prepared the same way. Momma could serve up ninety-five varieties. My favorite was what I called her "red chicken" -- aka chicken cacciatore -- with its sweet homemade tomato sauce graced with fresh basil and other herbs, especially garlic. We ate a lot of garlic. I don't know if Momma knew about the benefits of herbs, I just know she loved them. She also loved spices from all around the world: cinnamon from Madagascar, chilies from Mexico. She usually reserved her adventures with new spices for Sunday dinners.

Whenever we kids were introduced to a new spice or dish from a foreign country, we had to look it up in the dictionary, find it on our globe, and read up on it in our set of encyclopedias. The kitchen was my gateway to geography. I knew where Madagascar was! My parents were avid about our education, and ours started in the kitchen. It was in the kitchen that I got my first taste of math -- learning to work with measuring cups and spoons, to double or halve a recipe, and to distinguish between dry and liquid measurements.

Sunday dinner was also for putting a spin on an old standby. Instead of middle-America mashed potatoes to go with that standing rib roast, Momma might rather make garlic mashed potatoes with mushrooms and chives. OK! And they were jamming! Momma was always working her culinary skills with her blender, ricer, slicers, dicers -- she even had a Kabob-It, an electric tabletop shish-kebab maker. She turned all her daughters into gadget fanatics like herself. To this day, I have to stay clear of the shopping channels, because I would own every gadget they hawk.

When holidays came around, like most American families we went into a food frenzy. We may have even out-frenzied most families, especially when it came to Thanksgiving. Three menus were the norm, finished off with a spread of sweet things to rival any bakery.

We had the traditional menu: roast turkey with oyster-and-giblet dressing; collards or a mustard-and-turnip-greens mix; macaroni and cheese casserole (longhorn and sharp cheddar aged to perfection); cranberry sauce (whole berries and jellied); and homemade cloverleaf rolls. Momma had to make dozens and dozens of rolls because over the course of the day, I could eat a dozen by myself -- shoot, we all could. They were melt-in-your-mouth yumptious rolls to spread with sweet butter, sop gravy, or dip in warm honey.

Menu #2 was the "Specialty Dinner." Time to get fancy-fancy! Possibilities included roast duck, filet mignon, or a gourmet fish dish, with a couple or three side dishes, such as double-cheesy scalloped potatoes, fried-corn succotash with tomatoes and onions, or asparagus with wild mushrooms. And gravy for our veggies.

Menu #3 was the we-don't-give-a-damn-about-weight-disease-or-death menu: slow-cooked, spiced-just-right chitlins. When I researched the dish and found the correct pronunciation, I rode everybody who called them chitlins as opposed

to chitterlings. To no avail. In my home, they had to be "chitlins" -- fifty pounds at minimum -- with hog maws mixed in. My sister Paula and brother Michael were the chitlin pickers. They sat at the sink for hours just pulling and picking poop off the hog intestines. People said that Michael "could clean a chitlin so well you could hear it squeak." I did not care who cleaned them; I refused to eat them. Everybody wanted my helping of that stinking food -- always served piping hot and with hot sauce. I had no problem with the rest of the meal: spaghetti with meatballs, coleslaw, and baked or hot-water corn bread.

When my maternal great-grandmother lived with us, the hot-water corn bread was her contribution. And it took her all day to make it. She was slow-moving, and her eyesight was poor. I was her helper in the kitchen. The rest of the kids did not want to be in there with her because she was old, repeated herself, dipped snuff, chewed tobacco, and could and would spit that icky brown tobacco juice clean across the room into her spittoon. But I enjoyed her company and learned a lot from her history. She had met the self-made millionaire Madam C. J. Walker when the Madam came to the Midwest to teach "colored" women about hair care. Great-grandma also told me stories about growing up with Jim Crow in Water Valley, Mississippi, and about her migration from the South. I remember feeling so glad that I had not been born where and when she was. Not that I ever knew exactly when that was. During the few years that I knew her, Great-grandma declared herself eighty-eight, birthday after birthday.

I loved the woman, but I did not like her contribution to the Thanksgiving dinner dessert menu: molasses bread. It seemed to swell in your stomach and sit for days. And if you didn't like molasses bread, or key lime pie, or my personal favorite, German chocolate cake, you could take your pick: sweet potato pie, peach cobbler, minced meat pie, pound cake, cheesecake, cupcakes.

Preparation for Thanksgiving dinner commenced on the Monday before. All hands on deck! I was in the "low work" detail: tasks designated for the short kids. That included cleaning out the pantry, cabinets, and fridge for the new stuff coming for the celebration and getting out pots, pans, and other tools for those in the "high work" detail. They did the cutting, chopping, freezing, seasoning, and cleaning of chitlins, among other things.

As everyone did his or her part, there was laughing, singing, and sometimes fussing. Relatives and friends started coming by on that same said Monday after work to help or to just hang out. Most would bring booze; and some would bring treats for the kids. Before long, the grown-ups got a game of bid whist going. Such was our home for the next few days as we all got our mouths tuned up for the grand sit-down at two o'clock on Thursday.

We gave thanks by going back for seconds, thirds. And we always had a house full of folks. A parade of friends, kin, and pretend kin showed up to load up. Strangers, too: people a friend or relative brought along or somebody our mother adopted during the holidays. One Thanksgiving morning we woke up to find a young woman with two small boys and an infant son in our living room. OK, who were these people? Some lady who was down on her luck. Apparently, one of my cousins was the new baby's daddy. Momma felt obliged to make sure the beleaguered family at least had a happy Thanksgiving. (They stayed until right after Easter.)

After all the grown-ups had eaten to capacity, those who did not nod off were likely to be up for a "taste." A taste of Dewar's, Jack Daniel's, or Johnnie Walker Red Label. They said they needed something for the liquor to land on -- the reason they ate so much, they claimed. Well, when the liquor landed, the grown-folks became really funny and our home all the louder.

When it came to Christmas dinner, as with Thanksgiving, you would have thought that we were running a restaurant. That dinner also took about a week to work up and included a standing rib roast complete with the little chef hats, which Momma made, and ornately decorated three- and four-layer cakes. For New Year's Day, we kept it simple: roast pork loin -- the whole long thing -- parsley potatoes, gravy, corn bread, and, of course, a monster pot of black-eyed peas for good luck. And maybe only two desserts. We could actually cook Easter dinner in one day. Typically: ham, potato salad, string beans, rolls, and only one dessert. And Kool-Aid. We had Kool-Aid with every lunch and dinner, with every snack. Kool-Aid was the first thing we children learned to make. We probably went through twenty-five pounds of sugar a week just for the Kool-Aid alone.

Whatever the meal, our parents frowned upon most all foods that came in a box or can, and anything labeled "instant." Just about everything we ate was fresh and made from scratch, be it for a holiday or workaday dinner -- six o'clock sharp! -- such as Monday's fried chicken, white rice, and salad; Tuesday's spaghetti and salad; Wednesday's beef Stroganoff and green peas; or Thursday's liver and onions with white rice, plenty of gravy, and steamed spinach. On Friday, white rice again, salad with way too much stuff in it to be healthy, and, oh, yes, here comes the fish: treated to a flour-and-cornmeal batter, then lard fried in a black cast-iron skillet. (I still have that skillet.) Most of the fish we ate had sturdy bones. We kids learned early on h...

About this edition

• Publisher: Atria
• Publication date: 2006
• ISBN 10: 0743277643
• ISBN 13: 9780743277648
• Binding: Paperback
• Edition number: 1
• Number of pages: 256