Jazz Up Your Jicama Juice

For a change of pace in your normal juicing rootine (get it?), try adding jicama. This water-packed root vegetable delivers a colorless, light, mildly sweet taste. Plus, it's chock full of virus-fighting Vitamin C and potassium. How to choose the right jicama? Look for no cracks or dings and smooth skin. Peeling the rough skin is a bit tricky, stay away from vegetable peeler. Try a good paring knife instead. If jicama is gigantic, cut in half first and then peel. You may be able to grab a skin end with your knife and peel off like an orange.
For this recipe, assemble 1 large or 2 smaller peeled jicama for 2 to 2 1/2 lbs. total weight, cut in quarters to fit in feeder. 4 to 6 large, sweet carrots, ends trimmed and scrubbed. 4 cucumbers, ends trimmed and well scrubbed. 1 peeled lemon cut in half. 1 large, delectable apple cut in half. Divide all produce equally into two piles and turn on juicer. Juice each pile as one batch. Lemon and cucumbers juice on low, all the rest on high. Each produce bunch should yield about 32 oz.
Remember, you can always freeze raw juice for later. Freezing changes the texture a bit, but not the nutrition!

For The Love Of Dogs

In Memory Of Shea, my blue-eyed baby boy, my "Snoopy", my hiking buddy, my loving companion. I will miss you eternally.
I received a second punch on my invisible punch card. There are no reward points or "Free" car washes when I fill it. In fact, I hope I NEVER fill it. Once you are a member of this exclusive club, there is no "opting-out". Like The Eagles song goes "once you check-in, you can never check-out". There are no secret meetings held in dark, waxy cold basements, no fees, no cards issued. Every group member desperately wishes they could bargain their way out, to no avail. No invitation to join, we are all unwillingly initiated, and it is painful. Searingly agonizing. As if a Solingen steel, serrated edge sharp folding knife were plunged into your soul and surgically carved out a slice of it.
The paradoxical question being - why would anyone want to experience such paralyzing, suffocating pain ever again? One punch hole in your heart should be lesson enough. Lesson being to never, ever, ever go through this living hell again. Yet the answer to the question is - for the love of a four-legged creature. In my case, for the love of a dog.
Our personal experience with the death of our pets has not been a storybook ending. Neither one died in his sleep or had to be put down for terminal illness. Disneyesque bluebirds whistling simple tunes didn't hover around and cover them with caramel-hued blankets when they passed. Both times the grotesque decision of euthanasia was vague and wrenchingly painful. Nobody tells you this part of owning a pet. Nobody warns you of the end. Nobody shares their intimate, raw emotions of the experience. Probably because we all want to blot out the stain of guilt, shame, anger, desperation and bottomless grief as quickly as possible. But I AM going to impart our emotional journey to the hell of euthanasia so that others may be better prepared than we. Here goes:
Your vet will not tell you when it's time unless it is an emergency situation. Both our dogs could not walk or get up on their own much, but no vet ever TOLD us it was time, we had to ask.
The day you put your dog down, you will feel like shit. You spend the rest of that day wanting to TAKE IT BACK. Nothing will make you feel better, no matter how numb you want to become. So I stayed sober, the kind of sober only death can bring. The soberest I've been since February 10th, 2011 (when Annie died).
You walk out of the vet's office in a zombie-like haze. I don't even know how we got home. I just know I walked in with a dog and left with an empty leash and collar white-knuckled to my left hand.
You have the choice of staying and holding your dog till he's dead, or leaving him there...alone...with strangers. Both times we stayed and assured our old boys that killing them was the most loving action we could do for them. Yeah, right. You will never believe that one either. For as long as you live. Be prepared for the guilt of killing your pet, nobody tells you this part.

Our way of coping with the rest of that good-for-nothing day was to come home and clean his bowls, crate and toys. We separated what we could donate to a rescue group, including all his meds, and placed the rest in the attic with the dim outlook that someday we may have another doggie in our lives. We even cleaned the house, not to wipe out Shea's memory but to give us closure. I recommend you take the day off as your brain won't be thinking coherently.
The memory of your pet dying in your arms after a lethal injection of the most vibrant lavender pink poison, will be hot-branded in your conscious memory forever. You will not be equipped to handle this, it will haunt you. Know that choosing to stay and do the right thing, will also cause you extreme remorse and sorrow. Euthanasia is final, there is no going back. This seems like an obvious point, but my husband seemed stunned when it happened. Taking your pet's life strips away the protective layers of your emotional soul. It is now a raw, large open wound that will take months to heal and form a scab. And that slice that was cut out, will never return. You also discover what you are capable of and what your limits are.

Someday, you will have to forgive yourself for what you've done. When, I don't know. Forgiving and forgetting are two distinct paths. I still haven't forgotten the last one back in 1996, but I eventually realized his death was inevitable. The only way to fully receive forgiveness, is to fully forget that day. Which would require amnesia or a partial lobotomy. Making peace with ourselves and accepting our actions is a step towards forgiveness. Keep focusing on the joyful times you enjoyed together whenever that dark euthanasia moment skulks into your mind. Find a way to aid other pets, whether it's volunteering or donating money to your local rescue group . They are amazing organizations. And that vast ability you possess to love and care for another, needs to be shared again. Consider adopting another pet in the future, for the love of dogs.

It's A Fine Line Between Mercy Killing And Murder

Deciding the fate of another being's life is not a deed to be undertaken recklessly or in haste. Which is why my partner in crime, my hubby Brian, and I are taking a day by day approach on choosing a date to kill our 15 year old blue-eyed beautiful child. Mind you, it's perfectly legal here to engage in a murder for hire. Brian and I will issue the order and charge it on our Visa card, but someone else will inject the poison, declare him dead and hand us his ashes in a black plastic box. All included in the price. Clinically clean and tidy. Except for one problem: we love the little bugger with our entire souls.
Shea is the unsuspecting future victim of this horrific crime. His Sea of Cortez brilliant blue eyes sparkle with love and devotion. He devours his meals with such gusto, a gourmet cook couldn't be prouder. His absolute loyalty and devotion to us make us feel like pond scum. Gratefully Shea is mostly deaf so he can't hear when we openly discuss where to spread his ashes in the definite future. Although paradoxically, he livens up and begins to limp around us, as if saying " I'm fine, I'm feeling better now". Brian and I darkly joke that as long as we keep mentioning his funeral, maybe Shea will stubbornly stick around. After all, he is bossy, this alpha male Australian Shepherd of ours. Yes, of course he's a dog, who do you think he was???
I regretfully came to the brutal realization that I can't "fix" old age. Shea's arthritis, a condition worsened by his grand old Frisbee days, is destroying his quality of life. I didn't surmise that by keeping him healthy all his life, his body would give out before his heart. As much as we his parents desperately pray that he will die in his sleep, his robustly beating heart won't fail him, just us. It seems life is not without irony.
So every day, we wait. Wait for a sign. An undeniable signal that will justify euthanizing him. The cruelty of arthritis destroying his knees and hips is frustrating. How is this not a controllable disease?? Is this the fate that awaits the rest of us who've exercised and eaten right all our lives? The answer is yes, it is. Our bodies will betray us in the end, ungrateful bastards. Except we will wither away in an antiseptic hospital bed, drugged up to the point of being comatose, and dying of starvation, a painful death to be sure. Nobody to put us out of our misery, no mercy killing for us. Some argue euthanasia is murder, Dr. Kevorkian went to prison for such an act. Yet, if you've ever seen someone terminally ill, the swiftness of the angel of death is welcomed.
I know Shea's death will be an act of mercy when the time finally arrives. My bouncing Tigger not able to walk on his own four legs will be the sign we need. Until then, my hope remains unabated as I continue to stuff my huggingly soft, furry one with anti-inflammatories, glucosamine, Cetyl M, omega 3's, ginger, massage and showers of kisses.

Patience Is An Elusive Virtue

Over the years, I've honed the important skill of patience. Painstakingly cultivated through meditation. It's never been my strong suit, yet I am now able to suspend the mind and patiently wait for whatever I'm needing to present itself. Allowing the mind to ebb and flow in a horizontal plane, not attaching judgement or thought, just giving patience the space and time it requires to play it all out. In a perfect world, that is. The Universe can be wicked, devious and mischievous. As she was last week. I was minding my own business when she side kicked and upended my emotional apple cart, spilling Granny Smith's onto the dirt path. I frantically chased them, desperate as they quickened their escape by rolling downhill. Except the Granny Smith's aren't apples at all. They are grace, gratitude, gratefulness, empathy, courage, patience...you get the picture. Freshly plucked at their ripest, lovingly nurtured by me, specifically picked to feed me through a family crisis. I watched helplessly as hungry Munchinklanders, a tin woodsman, a lion, a straw man and an odd-looking farm girl snatched up my fruit, smarting at their luck. I reproachfully glanced over at the wooden cart and caught sight of a few apples resting on the corner edge. My hopes quickly dashed as I reached in to grab one and noted only bruised, wormholed, rotten emotional apples left - rudeness, ego, selfishness, indifference, fear and  impatience. No way I'm burdening myself with those, so I twirled on my heels and hiked up the hill to hand pick more fruit from the tree of life. This time I promise to be more selective.
Life throws obstacles (or tornadoes in Dorothy's case) onto our carefully laid brick path to help us find our character and our flaws. As we stumble, our friends pick us up, oil can in hand and help us along the way. When I see the wizard of Oz, I am asking for patience. What will you ask for?
 P.S. - I am deeply grateful to my friends and family for their support last week, thank you.