Last weekend I met up with three friends in Philadelphia to enjoy a very long weekend together. Growing up together in the neighborhoods of Levittown, New York, we have been friends since fourth grade. Except for the pandemic, we get together once a year or more from the four different states in which we have made our adult lives. This time we picked a very old house near Independence Hall in Philadelphia. Built in the 1850s, the house’s kitchen was located underground (first floor), with four more floors above it. The entry and dining room were on the second floor (ground level), with a sitting room on the 5th floor, and bedrooms on floors 3 and 4. We quickly became nimble at navigating the extremely steep, winding staircase.

We cooked a lot of our own meals in the updated kitchen and spent at least as much time hanging out as walking through Center City, goggling at the displays in the Reading Terminal Market, admiring the public art — especially near the Art Museum and along the Ben Franklin Parkway, visiting the Liberty Bell, and seeing a play at Walnut Street Theatre, not to mention enjoying the excitement of the local win that sent the Eagles to the Super Bowl. 

I don’t have to tell you that the meals we prepared were nourishing and healthy, with loads of fresh fruit and vegetables, beans, whole grains, nourishing fats, and high-quality protein. Of course they were. And a few days into our visit, one of our happy crew happened to remark that the reduction in the amount of sugar she was eating appeared to have reduced some of the GI symptoms she’s had since forever. I don’t really know if she meant for me to hear, but I did. And I was absolutely not surprised. What passes for food in this country continues to stun me.  Continue reading →