Recipe: Roasted Artichokes (Gluten-Free + Vegan)

A post about roasted artichokes is comically banal following last week’s heavy hitter regarding mental illness and homelessness as it pertains to my brother, Alex.

I’d just like to say how grateful I am for the support I received in regards to that last post. It took a full, painful week to write and, with my mental illness-informed workday, I was often hammering at the keys and staring at the screen until three or four in the morning. For me, those are the worst hours. It was arduous and awful.

I often feel lonely, mentally, and trapped in my own head. My brain feels helplessly impermeable. I’m stuck inside of it hating myself and others are stuck outside of it wondering how I could feel that way about their friend, Bailey. For me to be successful in getting something so intimate and hard to capture in words out into the world, helping people feel connected to others like them, is about all I could hope for.

So, I’ll keep doing my best to take care of myself so I can take care of others. It’s not a martyrdom, but a motivation. Making someone else feel less alone alleviates my loneliness, too.

Thanks, again.


These roasted artichokes are a simple, sightly side to add to any dinner. They look sophisticated AF on a a dining room table.

Ingredients

4 large artichokes, stems and top 1″ removed
1/4 c fresh lemon juice
1/4 c olive oil
4 garlic cloves, peeled
sea salt, to taste
~3 T Earth Balance butter

Instructions

  1. Preheat oven to 425° F.
  2. Place artichokes stem-side down in a bowl and separate the leaves slightly with your hands.
  3. Drizzle artichokes with lemon juice and olive oil.
  4. Insert a knife blade into the center of each artichoke and (carefully) wiggle around* until you’ve created a space big enough to push in a garlic clove. Press one garlic clove into the center of each artichoke.
  5. Finally, generously season each artichoke with sea salt.
  6. Tightly wrap each artichoke twice with aluminum foil.
  7. Place foil-wrapped artichokes in a baking dish and bake for an hour and 20 minutes.
  8. Remove from oven and allow artichokes to cool for about ten minutes before carefully removing foil. Then cool further, about another ten minutes, so you don’t burn your friends. Or enemies. Why’d you invite your enemies to dinner?
  9. About ten minutes before serving, melt butter over low in a saucepan before pouring into small bowls for individual dipping.

*”Wiggling a knife around” is a delicate technique I learned at Le Cordon Bleu Paris

lovely

Something I love about this recipe is not only that it’s low-maintenance to prepare, but you then get to pop it into the oven and essentially have an hour and a half to work on other items. I find timing out the preparation for a hosted dinner to be just short of rocket science. Everything should be as warm and fresh as possible, and this recipe makes it all a bit more manageable. After a while your loved ones are gonna be like “Why do we get artichokes every time we have dinner at [Bailey]’s house?” and that’s when you tell them, “Listen up assholes, this is actually my in-laws’ house. And…” (I don’t have the rest if the retort planned out yet). Then bring out the red velvet cake. Which they also always get served at your house.

If you get really into artichoke roasting, there are fancy accoutrements like this butter warmer or these artichoke servers or this artichoke plate, the latter of which I frankly don’t understand but… enjoy!

Serves four.

Bummed Out Bailey Rating: 8/10
Rick-the-Meat-Eater Rating: ?/10 He was in NYC and I was in Texas when I made this, but I have a feeling that, with his twelve year old palate, it’d be a solid… 1/10 for Rick.

Adapted from Simply Roasted Artichokes.

Related on Bummed Out Baker: 
Roasted Garlic Lemon Broccoli
Roasted Beets and Sweets
Parmesan Garlic Orzo (Gluten-Free + Vegetarian)


Subscribe at the bottom of Bummed Out Baker to get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.

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Mental Health: My Lowest Point in Eleven Years

On Thursday I experienced some kind of psychotic episode that concluded with the strongest suicidal ideation I’ve experienced in eleven years. I’m working with my psychiatrist and family to address what happened to me and how to move forward. I’m still reeling from the episode and am physically, emotionally, and mentally weak. When I’m able to, I have every intention to share the details of that day. But right now…

I’m walking the walk.

A Change Has Come to Bummed Out Baker!

After 63 consecutive Mondays of recipes, I’ve made the decision to cut recipes back to every other Monday. I put so much TLC into my recipe posts- from the grocery shopping to the cooking to the photographing to the cleanup to the photo selecting / editing to the post drafting, and each recipe post takes about one full day of work to put together. That’s 63 days of my life spent lovingly working on this passion project in hopes of drawing people into a supportive, unguarded, sometimes funny (I like to think) community and, while I’ve enjoyed it, I realize I need to reclaim some time to work on my book / thesis and my budding home organization business, Tidy B Organizing. More importantly, for those seeking community, I can now focus more energy toward my mental health posts, which seem to interest and resonate with readers most.

This is not some kind of slow decline until BOB slides off the face of the earth, rather quite the opposite! I’m in the throes of designing a fabulous new website with Kiki + Co. and have recipes that are both delicious and a bust (lol remember, honesty is my policy) queued up for the rest of 2019, even some for 2020. I’ve also been dreaming up and brainstorming the approach to something super exciting I have in mind for a Friday feature.

As BOB evolves organically to better suit readers and myself, the aim remains the same: to champion mental illness and discuss it openly. It’s imperative to destigmatize something that every person has been touched by in some way, and I look forward to continuing the charge.

Thank you, readers, for all your support so far!

Mental Health: No, You Don’t “Have Anxiety”

I’m gonna try to keep my cool here because, if you’ve been reading BOB for a while, you know I get fired up about word impeccability.

I’ve known about word impeccability ever since I read the book The Four Agreements ten years ago. It essentially champions saying what you mean and meaning what you say, something that’s not as simply employed as it seems. It remains on my nightstand as a reminder to this day.

I learned about the nuance of word impeccability as it pertains to specific people while working at Special Olympics International down in D.C. People first language, such as “Tabitha uses a wheelchair” versus “Tabitha is wheelchair-bound” and “Frankie has autism” versus “Frankie is autistic” gives agency to the person being described and also eradicates the physical or intellectual disability from defining the person being described.

Shortly after adopting this language I realized its parallels to the mental health community. “Sarah has Bipolar Disorder” versus “Sarah’s Bipolar” or “The psychiatrist says the man may have borderline personality disorder” versus “the man is borderline”. It’s essentially the use of “is” (defining) versus “has” (one descriptor).

Alright, now, where word impeccability gets personal is with the flippant use of the word “anxiety”.

When I was 13 years old, the summer before I went to high school, I went with my family to a sold out showing of a blockbuster. Every seat was filled and the movie was original, visually arresting and, for me, an absolute terror fest.

I was seated next to my mom right in the middle of a packed row mid-theater, ideal seats for most. Except I began to experience anxiety that I would not be able to quickly exit the situation. If I did, I’d upset people by making them have to stand up to let me by (this was long before recliners) and then upset them again by side-stepping back to my seat in front of their view. And then, what if I had to get up again?

Wait, is that an urge to pee? No, wait, I’m going to vomit. Yep, I’m certainly going to vomit and ruin this movie for everyone in seats around me.

My body became drenched in sweat despite the generously air-conditioned theater. I slipped around in my seat and gripped the arm rests. I began to panic, and my mom glanced over me and saw my white face. She had no idea what to do, and couldn’t open up a conversation in the middle of the movie to do a deep dive on what the hell was wrong. She asked me if I was okay, and I couldn’t even open my mouth to respond. If I did, I’d certainly vomit.

What if this is my last moment? Oh, god, I’m going to die in this movie theater. This is it.

My body turned rigid.

Isn’t this how a seizure begins? I’m going to die here in this velour seat with popcorn stuck to my sweat after I fall to the ground. I’m going to choke on my tongue. This is it. This is it. This is it.

My mom pulled papers out of her bag and began fanning me. She didn’t know what to do, either.

What was this?

I might as well not have been in a theater, because my thoughts were solely on survival. My thoughts had literally turned to death. When the fanning cooled me off, my heart began to slow, but the terror of leaving my seat made me stay in my seat until, finally, the movie ended. When the credits rolled people began to leave their seats, the bottoms springing back up to meet their seat backs with a thud, clearing the aisles. As they exited the theater, my body began to relax. I was physically exhausted and dazed as I walked out into the merciless sunlight. Instead of jabbering excitedly about a great movie, I was just working to get my body to the car.

On the way out I saw one of the “hottest” guys from school and we waved at each other. I gave him a weak smile. I was so relieved to be seeing him then instead of when I almost hurled in the theater. Don’t even get me started on dealing with undiagnosed mental illness in the throes of the social stressors of puberty…

People, that is a panic attack.

An anxiety attack is like a panic attack’s more reasonable cousin, as the former usually has an identifiable source. Panic attacks come out of nowhere and I’ve been absolutely plagued by both of these experiences since childhood.

It really upsets me when someone says they’re having anxiety and it doesn’t have anything to do with mental incapacitation. It downplays the experiences of people who truly have anxiety or panic disorders. It downplays the plight that trails me everywhere I go like some hungry, stray dog. It downplays true suffering and further hurts those afflicted.

Being anxious is a normal feeling fueled by cortisol that is a part of our survival mechanisms as humans. It comes and goes in appropriate situations, like job interviews or first dates. You can be anxious, but you’re not having anxiety. You’re not having an anxiety or panic attack.

You. Are. Simply. Anxious.

Someone who actually has anxiety is like their internal jug of cortisol gets dumped over in unsuspecting, often inopportune moments that deteriorate quality of life. In the 90s and 2000s I didn’t have language to describe what I was going through and felt completely isolated. Now that there’s common language for these disorders, people throw it around like a frisbee. Now, when I tell someone I have anxiety, it’s written off because “everyone” has it. That’s incorrect and, again, downplays the very real mental illness I suffer from.

It’s a blessing and a curse, really, the growing commonality of language pertaining to mental illness. While I’m glad people are able to talk more openly about their issues, others casually adopt the wording to describe every day feelings.

As I work hard to linguistically respect others with descriptors instead of definers, I wish to receive the same respect, myself. Please, work hard to respect people by using the correct wording. Everyone deserves that fundamental consideration.

I know this is going up the day before the 4th of July so, as Kevin G and the Power of Three would say after an aggressive performance, “Happy holidays, everybody!”

Mental Health: Psychiatrists

There are some things every person should know about people who seek psychiatric care.

STIGMA

Look, not all of us with mental illness are eating other people’s faces on the side of a highway in Florida. I mean, some of us are, but most people who seek or are in need of psychiatric care are average folks you interact with regularly: your colleague, your grandchild, your mail person, your stepdad, the person two people behind you in line at the grocery store, or you.

Unfortunately it’s common for a lot of people to suffer in silence and confusion. Not only do they need care, but they also often have no idea where to begin in terms of finding the right doctor, are overwhelmed by the expense, and have to deal with the crippling, unnecessary stigma attached to mental health issues. This stigma holds us all back from achieving ideal health and an optimal quality of life.

COST

My psychiatrist, like most psychiatrists, has chosen not to deal with insurance companies due to their overcomplicated nature, but without a psych I am unable to access the meds I desperately need. So, this dissonance then falls on the person in need of care, in this case, me.

Can you imagine that in New York City it costs me $400 to see my psychiatrist for 50 minutes? Aside from our car payment, my mental health is the biggest monthly expense for me and Rick. You may be wondering, “Why doesn’t she just seek out a psychiatrist her insurance covers?” Let me back up a moment.

CONNECTIVITY

Finding a psychiatrist you connect with is like dating, only the stakes are higher. Not only are you looking for someone you get along with personally, you’re searching for the right fit medicinally. You want to be in someone’s care who takes more than 20 minutes every four months to understand the inner-workings of your mind and know what meds would best compliment your brain chemistry. The consequence of faulty prescription can be lethal.

Couple this ideology with the fact that a new psychiatrist means a fresh emotional upheaval. You’re having to rehash everything that may be helpful to the doctor to assess your mental needs, and that requires a verbalized excavation of traumatic experiences. It sucks. The longer you’re with a psychiatrist, the harder it is to leave them because you’ve been so productive throughout your sessions, digging deeper and deeper. The better they know you, the better they can help you. Psychiatrists can brief other psychs on incoming patients, but no memo can take the place of hours spent doing deep dives into your head.

ACCESSIBILITY

HOT SPORTS OPINION ALERT! Another disconnect that, to me, causes an egregious margin of error in the specific realm of medicating mental illness is the psychologist / psychiatrist team up. This model has a patient regularly seeing a psychologist who then communicates their thoughts to a psychiatrist, who then prescribes meds back to the patient. Psychologists cannot prescribe meds and are often cheaper and, therefore, more accessible. It’s certainly better than nothing, but to me this kind of two step care leaves too much room for poor communication and subpar RX.

BRAVERY

It takes a lot of guts to go into a room and figure out how to be comfortable being vulnerable in front of a stranger. It also often takes months to review what a patient may perceive as “obvious” issues before moving onto to unsuspecting things in life, which are sometimes the most insidious and medically informative. It takes time, and it takes gumption. And remember, if the doc is a bad fit, the person seeking care has to start all over again with a new doc. Speaking from experience, this redundant process contributes to mental strain.

It’s so important to normalize the discussion of psychiatric care and to be empathic and encouraging toward those who seek it.

What have your psychiatrist or psychologist experiences been like? Have you had any particular hang ups? Comment below.


Subscribe at the bottom of Bummed Out Baker to get my mental health musings and recipes emailed to you directly – Follow on Facebook for mental health articles and discussion – Follow on Instagram for behind-the-scenes panic attacks and my begrudging, meat-eating husband captured in the wild.

If you or someone you know needs help right now, call the Suicide Prevention Lifeline at 1-800-273-8255.