What a Friend We Have in Cheeses?*

I mentioned yesterday that I was looking for organic whey powder at Whole Foods. The oncology nutritionist said to have more protein (I don't remember if this had to do with both cancer and losing weight, or just the latter.). She suggested whey. I've been mixing it with organic yogurt and organic ground flax seeds for breakfast for a couple of months. Then I started worrying that the whey might contain recombinant bovine growth hormones (rBGH), which are exactly what I don't need. Nobody needs them, but cancer bitches with estrogen-positive tumors really don't . Monday the supplement gal at Whole Foods said that none of the store's dairy products contains BGH and that the brand of whey that I buy, Jarrow, is very clean. (I had my doubts; Whole Foods is pretty waffly about whether its U.S. cheeses contain rBGH.) Jarrow's web site says that the goats that provide the company's goat milk protein are free range and hormone free. Jarrow doesn't make the same claim for its cows. You'd think if the cattle herd is leading a free and pure existence, the company would be sure to let us know. Monday night I wrote for more info. Today, Tuesday, I received a response from Jarrow: "Thanks for your inquiry. Our goat milk protein would be the only choice because growth hormones are not used in goat milk production. We are unable to know for sure with cow's milk whey protein because there is no accurate test that can distinguish between what is natural and what is synthetic. You might look for organic whey protein, which cannot contain GH by law."
I have looked for organic whey protein and haven't found it. I will have to order the goat protein.

So the gal at Whole Foods was wrong. Caveat cancer bitches.

Another option, theoretically, is to ingest organic hemp protein powder, which is readily available. But have you ever seen unflavored hemp protein powder? It looks like henna. I mixed it with yogurt and couldn't eat it. It's dark green. If you live in the Chicago area and would like a nearly-unused jar of hemp protein, gratis, let me know.

####
*This is apparently a common misapprehension and parody of the hymn. My friend Jennifer Berman has a cartoon that doubles the pun. The cartoon show a couple of people walking towards some bottles of juice (with arms and legs) trying to foist pictures of cheese onto passersby. One person says to another, "Oh no. More juice for Cheeses."

Remembrance of Things Past or: Everybody's Got a Web Site (Except Frieda)

My friend Miz J, AKA fabulous cartoonist Jennifer Berman, called today to tell me about a dream she dreamt in my honor. She was (in the dream) approaching Paris, and it looked all Impressionist-y , just as Monet and Renoir had painted it and she realized that Paris really did look that way. Then she was in a gallery where cartoonist Nicole Hollander was working. She was making molds of the breasts of women who were about to have mastectomies. This reminded me of Cynthia Plaster Caster, who makes molds of the penises of rock musicians. Similar, but not the same. There's no surgery involved with Ms. Plaster Caster's project. You could argue that there's loss all the same: she had one-night stands with some of these guys. And--this just in--I just found out from her web site that she has also cast a few breasts. Anyway, the dream led to an idea from Miz J. Three people so far (Garry Cooper, my old boss C who is now my new boss C*, and my sister) have suggested I sell advertising space on my head. Miz J suggested I have different artists work on my bare scalp. I said I would reserve her a space. I'll have to have advance warning so I can let the henna fade.

I was thinking I could auction off my scalp to artists and have the proceeds go to Breast Cancer Action. Or have the artists work for free, and sell tickets to watch? I don't know if I would have takers for either. But after all, people pay extra to sit at a table in the kitchen of fancy restaurants so that they can watch. the food artists at work

Years ago, my friend Frieda Dean created a hat gallery. She wore a hat that displayed small canvases she'd painted. Read about the gallery in the Comments section of this post, in an article by Jessica Seigel.

I am so glad I have a decorated scalp. I was in Trader Joe's tonight in the soup-olives-peanut butter aisle and a little girl said something to her father about "funny hair." I said: I don't have any hair. I have designs on my head. You have to choose one or the other, I said, hair or designs.

I didn't feel bad at all. I think I would have felt much more self-conscious if my head was bare.

Frieda was my neighbor on Buckingham Place on the North Side. I coveted her address, 733-1/2. I was plain 733. Frieda moved from Lakeview to Logan Square, where she lived in the brick Art Nouveau apartment where William Paley had lived as a child, and then to Manhattan, near Wall Street. After 9/11 I called her and she said she was having trouble explaining to her dog Butch (a skinny Italian greyhound) why he couldn't go outside. Next time I called her she was gone. I've found her on-line at an art school in Georgia and I sent her a card c/o the place but she didn't write back. When I run into Alex Kotlowitz, who met an ex-girlfriend through Frieda, he asks me about Frieda, and looks at me accusingly when I say I lost her. But I thought you were good friends, he says.

--
*C was my boss as Well-Regarded University. He is now my boss's boss at Intellectual University, where I also teach part time. His dissertation was on Joseph Roth.