Review: POM Wonderful

POM Bourbon Marinated Tri-Tip. YUM!

This review is long overdue. Shortly before having Lily (yeah, that would be two years overdue!), I received a nice email from a POM Wonderful representative asking if I would be willing to review the company's pomegranate juice in exchange for a free case. I said yes, adding that I would have to disclose that I received the juice for free when my review was published. The case of juice arrived the week I was to be induced. Suffice it to say, I've had other things on my mind for the last two years. But a promise is a promise, so I'm making good on my word here.

This was not the first time I had tried POM products. The idea of cold pomegranate juice that I didn't have to squeeze myself sounded like the greatest thing since the wheel when it first hit the marketplace, and I bought a few to try. I won't lie, it's the nectar of the gods.

Headquartered in Southern California, POM grows its Wonderful variety pomegranates in the San Joaquin Valley, where I have lived my entire life. POM is the largest grower of pomegranates in the United States and according to its website, supplies the majority of the nation's fresh pomegranates and ships to more than 55 countries. Oh, and they've been generous donors to UC Merced, which already puts them on my short list of favorite corporations.

Now that you know a little about the company, let's talk about what I did with all of that juice. A case of juice goes a long way in the home of a post-WLS woman. As a sugar-sensitive post-op and reactive hypoglycemic, juice is at the top of my long list of banned foods. However, the timing of my gift was perfect. Arriving days before Lily's birth, the juice was like a gift from God. And in the end, it literally saved my life.

Allow me to explain. If you've read Lily's birth story, which you could also call my labor story, you know it didn't all go according to plan. We walked into the situation knowing that a severe hypoglycemic episode had the same symptoms of what people call "transition" in labor. We knew that when (forgive the pun) push came to shove, I would need glucose support. And that's why I had my husband pack four bottles of that delectable POM Wonderful juice in our hospital bag.

At the hospital, I tried my best to be a good patient. They had juice they wanted me to have. Too bad that "juice" wasn't really. Looking at the label (labor hadn't really started yet so I had time and energy for label-reading) left me nonplussed. The box the nurses gleeful offered me was 10 percent juice and 90 percent high-fructose corn syrup and other additives. But I'm a good soldier. I politely accepted the fake juice from the nurse and as soon as she left, ask my husband to instead dilute some of the POM juice into my ice-water cup. One container of POM Wonderful juice lasted throughout my labor experience. It provided the sugar my body needed to get through the marathon of childbirth. Their were some complicating factors along the way, as my loyal readers know. But the complications would have been much more dire had the diluted POM juice not been available to me.

Diluted POM juice was my primary source of glucose support throughout my hospital stay and during my first days home as I was learning to juggle motherhood, breastfeeding and healing.

Even through all of that, I still had six bottles of juice left. No longer needing the juice to keep my blood sugar stable, I found myself wondering what to do. It had been given to me free of charge for personal use so I didn't feel it would be ethical to give it away. However, drinking it no longer was healthy for me.

Around that time, I signed up for a freezer meal exchange group. Created for busy moms, the group focused on each member making multiple batches of the same dinner to freeze. Then once a month, the group got together to exchange meal. You walk into the exchange with five of the same meal and walk out with five different meals. Functional and fun.

Our local grocery happened to have a great sale on beef roast that month and I visited the POM website to see if I could find a way to incorporate the juice into that month's exchange. What I found was an incredible recipe for POM Bourbon Marinated Tri-Tip.  I have since followed the recipe to the letter and must tell you it's even better than the picture above implies.

However, for my freezer meal exchange, some adjustments were needed. I decided to make this as a crock pot meal. So instead of using tri-tip (a California-specific cut of meat only beginning to gain popularity in other states), I used a ball-tip beef roast. I put the raw roast in a giant resealable freezer bag with the marinade contents and froze it. Well, I did this five times, since I was part of the exchange. I gave everyone instructions to thaw the contents in the bag, dump it into a crock pot and cook on low for 8-12 hours. I also included a small baggie of pomegranate arils I had purchased from the store and instructions on boiling down the cooking liquid to make a sauce for serving.

Every single person in my group raved about this dinner dish. The bourbon prevented the marinade from completely freezing and served to continuously tenderize the meat. The pomegranate juice sweetened the marinade enough that even after three months in the freezer, the bourbon flavor didn't overpower the meat. It was a wildly successful experiment and a dish I now make often in my own home because it gives me that wonderful pomegranate flavor without the perils that come from me consuming too much sugar.

The POM site, by the way, is filled with incredible recipes for every taste and time of day. It's worth checking out. But more importantly, if you haven't already, check out a bottle of POM Wonderful pomegranate juice. It's usually found in the refrigerated section of your local grocery store's produce department. It tastes good and is good for you. And if you love pomegranate arils, visit the site today for a coupon. A dollar off makes a big difference.

Unhealthy Food Choices: Privilege or Right?

This photo was featured on the L.A. Times opinion blog referenced below. I'm using it here to illustrate a point.

Today's rant is brought to you courtesy of an L.A. Times opinion blog post that one of my friends shared today on Facebook. For those of you short on time or interest, I'll spare you the details and get to the point: A Florida senator wrote a bill to restrict what recipients of federal aid can buy with that money. By federal aid, the senator means food stamps or what we call "EBT" where I live. The bill would prevent the use of EBT in restaurants or on most foods not found in the meat, dairy and produce aisles. The Times' editorial board has called the bill socialistic. Some Times readers commented that recipients of food stamps are eating on the taxpayers' dime and therefore, don't have the luxury of free will when it comes to what to buy.

The Times hasn't asked what I think, but I have my own blog so I get to share my opinion anyway.
I have never set foot in the state of Florida so I can't speak to its system. But I am a native of California's Central Valley and know a thing or do about how public assistance works here.The food-stamp program has changed a lot over the last few years. Marketing efforts have given it a new image. It's now officially called CalFresh, which complements CalWorks, the new name for cash aid. If you visit the CalFresh website, you'll see the state wants recipients to make good food choices and strives to educate them on how to stretch those free food dollars the furthest. In addition to being able to use your EBT card at Jack in the Box, you can also use it to buy cheap fresh fruits and vegetables at our local farmers' markets. Welfare has come a long way, baby!

Despite all this education and glitzy marketing, obesity still reigns supreme. Local university researchers are amazed at the number of children with obesity-related co-morbidities such as high blood pressure and Type 2 diabetes. Sadly, most of those obese children come from homes with CalFresh assistance. And their obesity is evidence that healthy eating is not the norm. This proves that education (the Times' suggested solution) alone is not the answer. Knowing what to eat and feed to your family and actually taking the time to do it are two different things.

My knee-jerk reaction is to say forget choice and dictate every singe morsel purchased with public funds, if for no other reason than to serve the taxpayers' best interests. Obesity is expensive. Obese children become obese teens and later, morbidly obese adults. Obesity-related illnesses are expensive to manage and treat. But that reactions comes from the perspective of my inner 200-pound child, who still remembers the emotional and physical challenges of growing up poor and obese.

As much as I want to save our future generation from the curse of obesity, I know that children are at the mercy of the adults in their lives. And American adults will stop at nothing to get what they want when they want it. I can remember as a child, seeing people in the grocery store parking lot try to trade food stamps for cigarettes. If this Florida bill were to gain steam and become law, food-stamp recipients wouldn't instantly become Jamie Oliver's newest converts. They would just find a way to trade those EBT dollars for the unpermitted foods they want. Instead of trading food stamps for cigarettes, people would start trading them for jelly doughnuts and potato chips.

So, if I'm saying education isn't the answer, and mandating the purchase of healthy foods isn't the answer, then what IS the answer? I wish I knew. If I did, I could use my public relations background to market it and pat myself on the back all the way to the bank.

Nutrition education and activism must continue, and each of us must lead by example. When we step up to the plate to make better choices for ourselves, we serve as an example to those around us. So the solution lies within each of us and what we buy at the store for our household, because that dictates the food served in our home and to our household guests.

Dinner time at your house may be the first time your child's favorite playmate ever lays eyes on roasted asparagus or green beans that weren't victimized by the canning process. That playmate might bravely try that asparagus, like it and go home and tell his family about it. And who knows? Maybe asparagus will makes its way on their dinner table the following week. You never know. So the next time you have company over for dinner -- whether adult friends or kid friends -- consider making dinner instead of ordering takeout, and watch for the ripple effect.

'Weigh' to Go!

Like a good little post-WLS girl, I went to the doctor today for my annual lab work-up. It's hard for me to believe that the 24th of this month will make seven years since my Roux-En-Y gastric-bypass procedure. But what is harder for me to believe is how my doctors respond to my weight at my check-ups nowadays. The only word I can come up with to describe it is glee. Really...my doctor is filled with glee every time she checks my weight. It's an odd occurrence to observe, considering that I was in the super-size club for so long. You know, the club where you go to the doctor for a sore throat and they find a way to make it about your weight so they can discuss diet and exercise without seeming insensitive. I spent about two decades in that club.

I don't keep a scale in my house anymore and when I go to the doctor, I don't even look at my weight. It's way too easy for me to obsess on the numbers, and I did not have gastric-bypass to have the scale serve as my external source of self-esteem. I did it to give me the opportunity at a healthier life, both physically and emotionally. And in my book, daily weigh-ins and freak-outs over a pound here or there is not healthy.

I'm still about 10 pounds over what I consider my "fighting weight" of 165 pounds -- that sweet spot for me when clothes fit perfectly off the rack and I am able to move through the world with minimal effort. But I'm also about 10 pounds less than I was when I found out I was pregnant with Lily (which followed the most stressful month of my life). I will take the weight I am at right now over where I have been any day of the week.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year 2012

The Kubo clan in December 2011. Photo courtesy of Donavan Garrison/DMG Photos

Time is precious. That’s all I can think of right now as I write this post. I started this blog seven years ago with a dream in my heart that if successful, I would one day be a mom. I could never have predicted the road on which surgical weight loss would have me travel – rapid weight loss, active lifestyle, near-death experience, divorce, career change, remarriage, etc. – but I am forever grateful for the vehicle.

Lily turned 2 in January. Photo courtesy of
Donavan Garrison/DMG Photos

I remember the first time a doctor mentioned gastric bypass to me. I was 280 pounds and trying to figure out why I couldn’t get pregnant. I had been obese almost as long as I could remember, but I never thought it would interfere with fertility. Docs know so much more now than they did back then but after looking at my charts, the nurse midwife said weight-related infertility was the only logical conclusion.  I left the office insulted that she thought I was big enough for bariatric surgery and then I went home and proceeded to “diet” my way to 350 pounds over the next year.

I had no interest in being thin at the time; that was such a foreign concept. But I desperately wanted a baby, and that desperation won out in 2004 when I began the process to have Roux-en-Y gastric-bypass surgery through Kaiser South San Francisco. The rest, as they say, is history.

Lily, that child I wasn’t sure I would ever have seven years ago, is now 2. And every day that I look into her eyes, I am reminded of what an incredible gift WLS can be. But it’s a delicate gift that requires careful handling and consideration. I’ve forgotten that a time or two over the years and have paid the price.

But today, I relish hearing the words, “Mommy” and “Mom” from the baby bird lips of my toddler in that soft, high-pitched voice that I know won’t last forever. I share the day-to-day discoveries on Facebook with my friends and I count my blessings even in times of frustration.

I have yet to mail out my Christmas cards but I would love to share a couple of my favorite photos from our holiday session, courtesy of Donavan Garrison at DMG Photos. I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.

Breaking the Cycle

After a long hiatus, I’m moved to blog yet again by a comment posted on “Trying to Heal the Inner Child,” which I wrote back in 2005. Not popular among many of my relatives, the post expressed my anger about being a morbidly obese child and what I felt was the gross inaction of the adults around me.

Now I find myself wearing the other shoe, with a daughter who will turn 2 in a few months. There are times that I obsess over ensuring she doesn’t follow in my footsteps but feeling overwhelmed by all the messages to the contrary in society: fast-food restaurants on every corner, growing numbers of obesity from infant to adult, sedentary habits, etc. But I always calm myself with one thought: All I can do is all I can do.

I cannot fight the world all by myself. I can’t control what is served in other homes, but I can control the eating environment in my home. Both my husband and I work very hard to cultivate a healthy perspective on food in our home and in front of our daughter. If we don’t want her to eat it, we don’t eat it and we don’t keep it in the house.   Maybe that’s why dropping my baby weight wasn’t an issue.

Seriously, though, we don’t have a “clean your plate” policy in our home, and I won’t allow anyone else to impose one upon our daughter. We offer and serve a wide variety of food and I don’t force the issue if she refuses something. I also refuse to be a short-order cook. If she doesn’t eat much of what she’s served, I know there is a snack or meal just a few hours ahead when we can try again. I will not jump through hoops to get her to eat large quantities at every eating event.

The end result is we have a toddler with a love of exotic cuisine: Thai curries, Indian dals, sushi and sashimi, and tofu are all favorites. She loves anything orange, which means there is a lot of cheddar cheese, pumpkin, winter squash, and carrots served in our home. She seems to enjoy strong flavors; sharp cheeses and spicy salsas rank high on her list.

She’s never laid eyes on a chicken nugget, and she won’t in our home. The world has way too many foods to offer for us to limit her to what can be found at drive-thru. But still, I try not to obsess. I don’t always pack enough of the right foods when we’re on the go. So sometimes we have to stop at a convenient place. She’s had apple slices and milk from McDonald’s and though I can’t tell you exactly when, I’m sure she’s had a bite of hamburger once or twice. When on the go, we try to choose sit-down restaurants or grab takeout from Starbucks, because we feel we have better control. The bento boxes at Starbucks with noodles and tofu are pricey but she sure loves them.

She also doesn’t drink fruit juice. Health professionals are always telling us adults not to drink calories, so why do we push that upon our children? As a bariatric post-op and reactive hypoglycemic, I don’t drink fruit juice. Neither does my husband. There is no reason to have it in our home, and quite I don’t think any child NEEDS it. We get a lot of odd looks from people and questions of “But what does she drink?!” as if she’s in danger of dehydration. She gets plenty of fluid from water and milk, thank you very much.

She's healthy, happy and we have no complaints. Why fix what isn't broken?

So that’s our bird’s-eye view on food in our home. What’s yours?

The Best-Laid Plans – Labor & Delivery

By my 40th week, stubbornness was no longer an option. My blood pressure, which had averaged 116/64 during my pregnancy, had begun to climb. It was 134/84 at 38 weeks and 140/90 at 39 weeks. Showing no signs of protein in my urine or blood, I didn’t have pre-eclampsia but it seemed like that was the next logical step. The day before I was admitted to the hospital, my blood pressure was 150/94 and I was showing trace amounts of protein in my urine. Official diagnosis: Pregnancy-induced hypertension, referred to by some doctors as “pre-pre-eclampsia.” I wonder if those doctors also work for the Department of Redundancy Department.

Humor aside, my need to compromise wasn’t over. My doctor explained that being induced while still relatively healthy increased my chances of a somewhat natural delivery and reduced my chances of requiring a Caesarean section. Though I come from the school of thought where “natural childbirth” is defined as allowing your body to naturally do its own thing (no induction, no painkillers, no medical intervention, etc.), I found myself compromising yet again.

Hurry up and Wait
I admitted myself into the hospital at 8 a.m. Jan. 21. Since my body was showing all the signs of being ready to deliver on its own, the doctor agreed to be less aggressive and start with prostaglandin gel. The baby’s head was right on the cervix so there was no need for pitocin-induced contractions to bring the baby lower into the pelvic outlet. We just needed to get the cervix opened up so the baby could come out.

The gel did its work on my cervix, and regular contractions began shortly thereafter. The doctor visited me around dinnertime and said that we’d most likely have a baby Friday afternoon. My night-shift nurse decided to administer another dose of gel around 8 p.m., figuring it would cause my cervix to soften overnight while I slept. We called the doula and told her that we wouldn’t need her services until the next day. None of us knew at the time what lie ahead of us.

They Don’t Call it ‘Labor’ for Nothin’
The second dose of gel threw labor into overdrive for me with intense contractions starting at 11 p.m. The most intense contractions alternated between belly and back, indicating the baby was most likely sideways with its shoulder and elbow digging into my spine.

This is when I should have called the doula, but I still believed “hard labor” wouldn’t begin until the following morning and didn’t want to disturb her. Only now do I realize that was the wrong move.

Thinking I should conserve my energy for the hard work ahead the next day, I agreed to the nurse’s offer of a small dose of Stadol to help me sleep. Bad idea. The drug hit me hard and fast, making me just this side of crazy. I swear, I haven’t felt that intoxicated since taking up the challenge of drinking 21 shots on my 21st birthday. I was out of my mind but aware enough to realize I couldn’t articulate a complete sentence and should just stay quiet.

Fear Sets In
Here is where things got a bit hairy. Brian, the doula and I were all prepared for the signs of transition, which has symptoms that mirror severe hypoglycemia. We were also prepared for the possibility that I might have a hypoglycemic episode (blood sugar dipping below 50) during labor. What we didn’t prepare for is that both could occur at the same time, and that none of us would figure it out.

Between the hypoglycemia and the Stadol, I was incoherent. I couldn’t follow simple instructions and kept having flashbacks to my bowel obstruction three years ago. I had a hard time differentiating between past and present. I was terrified and couldn’t effectively communicate.

My blood pressure was escalating, giving readings of 150/99 up to 165/ 104. The nurse suggested an epidural. I fought the idea. I had already compromised my ideal natural birth experience; I didn’t want to compromise further. Yet I couldn’t figure out how I would deliver my baby when I couldn’t even figure out where I was or speak a complete sentence to anyone around me.

Seeking a way to clear my head, I agreed to the epidural. The anesthesiologist arrived at the same time as our doula. But by that point, there was little she could do for me. Instead of giving me a full epidural, the doctor administered a bolus – a temporary dose of medication – with the intention of returning to give me more later. Once the epidural kicked in and the doula began feeding me diluted juice, the fog in my head began to clear. I wasn’t numb from the epidural – just a little tingly. I could feel my contractions but I was no longer in fear. I knew where I was and what I was doing. I was able to put the terror of the bowel obstruction behind me and focus on the task at hand. Once I had enough juice in me, I realized the uncontrollable jitters, nausea and mental fog were due to low blood sugar.

I had a moment of feeling like an epic failure at the birth process since I caved to offers of drugs, but that gave way to excited anticipation that I would soon hold my baby in my arms. The bolus began wearing off after a couple of hours and my contractions got more intense. I felt the full force of each, most concentrated in my back, and my doula and Brian coached me through relaxing as each one came and went.

Getting Down to Business
It soon became apparent that the baby would arrive quickly. The nurse called our doctor and said she was on her way, but the baby had no intention of waiting. The urge to push was overwhelming, and the nurse led me through a practice push to see how effective I would be at it. Apparently, I did a great job because her next instructions were to avoid pushing and to breathe through the contractions. Fat chance, I told her. Her response: “Tonya, I cannot deliver your baby. We have to wait for a doctor.” Then she started paging residents.

I don’t know if I said it out loud, but I didn’t care if she wanted to deliver the baby or not. As far as I was concerned, she could step aside and let Brian and the doula take over. One thing was certain, the baby was coming, and I wasn’t holding back. My doula whispered to me that I could push if I wanted. So I did.

Lily Ann was born in the next push. Her cord was around her neck but the nurse calmly took care of that without much distress. She was in my arms as the OB residents entered the room in time to clamp the cord for Brian to cut. My doctor arrived just in time to handle the cleanup, which was pretty extensive given the speed at which Lily was born. But by that point, I had Lily on my chest and I didn’t care. Brian and I were in awe of her. Such a perfect little being that we created, and I birthed into the world. The achievement -- even though it required compromises on my part -- still boggles my mind.

The Best-Laid Plans

I have waited my entire life to become a mother. Seriously, having children is something I can vividly recall looking forward to from the time I was about 6 years old. Raised as an only child, I also wanted a really big family, often telling people that I wanted 25 children. I was about 13 before I realized that it would take me about 40 years to reach that goal unless I had a string of multiple births. By the time I was in high school, I had settled on a much more manageable number: 6, and had a plan to start my family at 25.

But as we all know, planning and doing are two entirely separate things. I never planned to have trouble getting pregnant, I never planned to get divorced and I definitely didn’t plan on getting remarried in my early 30s – yet that’s what happened, and what led to me having my very first baby on Jan. 22.

Lily Ann has 10 fingers, 10 toes, and all the necessary parts to connect them. She’s practically perfect in every way. Yet her debut into this world did not come as I had planned.
Having spent my childhood, teens and early 20s as a paid caregiver for other people’s children, I had plenty of time to plan how I would raise my own. I babysat and nannied for a variety of individuals – granola-munching ex-hippies, modern yuppies, welfare moms struggling to get by, military personnel, etc. – and each experience taught me a little about what I did and didn’t want for my own children.

I knew I wanted to exclusively breastfeed, use cloth diapers and wear my baby 24/7. I also wanted natural birth, with my preference being an unassisted home birth but willing to compromise by having a midwife present.

My pre-existing health conditions – gastric bypass, bowel obstruction, abdominal hernia, anemia, reactive hypoglycemia – caused me to “risk out” when it came to a home birth, meaning that no midwife was willing to take on the risk of assisting me with a home delivery.

Thus began my first compromise as an expectant mom: I would give birth in a hospital, attended by a family practitioner and assisted by my husband and a doula (labor assistant) to serve as my advocate.

Then my health conditions took their toll on my body and on my pregnancy, leading me to more compromises: Ultrasounds and fetal monitoring multiple times per week and early maternity leave.

When it came to my 38th week and my doctor began discussing the possibility of induction, I was a bit like a spoiled child and dug in my heels. I felt that I had compromised enough during my pregnancy, and I didn’t want to budge one inch further. I wanted the natural delivery of my dreams, and I was determined to get it. But sometimes, fate forces our hand even when we want to be stubborn.