Category Archives: Bookish Stuff

September 1, 2026 · 12:36 pm

Let Them Eat Cake–Sometimes

Once in a great while, I stumble across a book that’s so good, I reread it. Glucose Revolution by Jessie Inchauspé (Glucose Goddess on Instagram) is just such a book. It might not be of interest to everyone per se, but since I have type 2 diabetes, I am wholly invested in its subject matter. Plus, I thought my doctor might be impressed to learn that I read it—twice. Unfortunately, I haven’t been able to convince my husband to read it yet. He argues, “When they cure death, I’ll read it.”

At any rate, it’s written in a conversational tone, it’s incredibly easy to understand and there are cute little graphics throughout that appear to be hand drawn. And since I can relate to the topics the author discusses, I got a lot out of her book and actually applied her findings to my own life.

In a nutshell, she shares her research on what she calls “hacks” that help readers more efficiently manage their glucose spikes—or “flatten their glucose curves,” as Inchauspé refers to it. Now I’m not a medical professional, so please don’t take any of this information as if I were. You should always consult your doctor before implementing any medical advice. But so far, the hacks depicted in said book appear to be helping me control my blood sugar.

The irony here is that so many of her so-called hacks (there are 10 in all) seem almost counterintuitive—at least to me. For starters, apparently the order in which food is consumed matters. Who knew? I’ve lived on this planet since the Kennedy administration and never knew this mindboggling fact. According to Inchauspé, fiber in the form of veggies should start every meal, followed by protein and healthy fats, then carbohydrates and finally sweets, if at all. To put this into practice I ate an Italian sausage sandwich at a Crosscutters game recently by deconstructing it—plucking the delicious sautéed peppers and onions off first, then devouring the sausage and finally the roll—like a complete nutjob. Hopefully, no one was watching.

Another habit the author swears by is to walk after meals, so that the corresponding glucose feeds muscles instead of staying in the bloodstream. So much for morphing into a couch potato after I eat. Instead, I try to go for a short walk, but I get to pet dogs so it’s all good.

Yet another hack is to consume a bit of vinegar before meals—like olive oil and vinegar dressing on a green salad. I personally add vinegar by having a dill pickle—or three. And like Ray Romano once famously remarked, “Man, I love a pickle.” “It’s like a food and a drink.” I agree wholeheartedly.

Likewise, another practice mentioned in the book is to eat dessert immediately after a meal instead of snacking all day. I remember life as an exhausted parent of toddlers—becoming just as dependent upon the little baggies of Cheerios as my kids were. Apparently, though, having dessert spikes glucose less than snacking incessantly. So, if I’m going to eat something sweet, I eat it right after the meal and then go for a walk, ideally. As the ill-famed line goes: Let them eat cake—sometimes.

What’s more, I’ve added quite a bit of protein to my diet—like Greek yogurt. And I don’t even like Greek yogurt. But if you add enough blueberries, it’s at least palatable. Then again, I’m playing Russian roulette with fresh produce (i.e. Cyclospora). But I digress.

One of the most bizarre hacks the author touts in her book is to ditch cereal and juice for breakfast and instead eat something savory. My husband, of course, thinks it’s beyond peculiar when I choose baked haddock, green beans and rice (a prepackaged meal from Tony’s Deli) FOR BREAKFAST. Or leftover chili. Or cheese ravioli. Or any kind of eggs. Or avocado and cottage cheese. Strange, I know.

I guess it’s all in the name of trying to be healthier, as weird as some of the Glucose Goddess’s suggestions might sound. Time will tell if her hacks have a big impact.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably having a pickle). Visit me there at www.melindawentzel.com. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Into the Woods

It’s no wonder the novel The Secret Garden resonated so deeply with me when I was around ten. I found myself identifying with the characters who became immersed within the natural world, inside a special, hidden-from-civilization plot of greenery that ended up healing them in some way. And since I grew up surrounded by woods and thickets, I became enveloped by endless groves of tall trees, season after season, never wanting to leave what seemed like home.

The scent of pine mingled deliciously with the tang of autumn, only to be overshadowed by the sweet aroma of blossoms each spring. And I can’t begin to describe what it felt like to be enshrouded by the lush vegetation come summer. I still remember how cool and smooth the maple leaves felt against my skin. Even winter, with fresh snow sitting atop tree branches, offered a special brand of awe in my secret garden.

Although much of the time I was alone in the woods, sometimes my brother or the neighborhood kids would join me. For hours on end, we’d wander through the trees and brush, turning over flat rocks to see what hid beneath them, transforming errant sticks into spears and knives and building all manner of forts over what seemed like limitless acreage of forest. Footpaths snaked through the woods, connecting each of those beloved forts.

The ravine where most of our time was spent was a challenge to climb as I recall, but we managed to make it to the top despite masses of leaves slipping underfoot. Of course, it was worth it because the view from the other side was spectacular. Besides, after reaching the summit, we’d discover multitudes of huge, moss-covered oaks that beckoned for us to sit and read a good book, if we remembered one, that is. I’m not sure there’s a reading nook quite so perfect, nestled on a spongy blanket of moss while leaning against an unyielding tree trunk, breathing in the intoxicating scent of the earth.

To say that I’m grateful to have had such a nature-immersed childhood is an understatement—chapters of my life that I won’t soon forget. I think all three of our kids had one, too. But I fear the majority of kids today aren’t being afforded a similar experience. Whether it’s due to trepidation regarding the safety of our charges while they’re unsupervised or because said charges are inextricably glued to screens.

Regardless of why, I still think scores of impressionable youths are missing out on connecting with their environment in a way that could positively impact their lives. That said, kids need to play in the woods. They need to breathe fresh air. They need to build forts. They need to work together with their friends toward a common goal (constructing something that won’t collapse right away) and get their hands dirty in the process. And they need to spend time in those forts—forts that are in a constant state of development and redesign, utilizing their creativity and making their brains work harder. Tree forts, I dare say, require even more critical thinking skills. I’ll never forget the one my friends and I attempted to erect using an enormous cardboard box and ladder, perilously fastened to a tree. It didn’t end well, but we all learned something valuable.

Thankfully, by the time our daughters were traipsing around in the woods with hammers in hand, we had enough sense to provide them with wood scraps and pallets, not cardboard. And the forts that were built out of them held up to the weather for years, although now there’s little trace that said forts ever existed.

But they know they existed, and that has made all the difference.

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably rereading The Secret Garden). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesFromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

Comments Off on Into the Woods

Filed under A Tree is Nice, Bookish Stuff, Endless Summer, Gratitude, Love and Other Drugs, Lovers of All Things Rockish, Me Time, Unplugged

Tagged as childhood, childhood memories, love, nature, nature lover, outdoors, parenting, trees, Unplugged, woods

May 12, 2026 · 11:00 am

By the Book

I have what some would consider a small library in my home—which sounds more impressive than it actually is. It’s a tiny collection of books written by some of my favorite authors, situated on a shelf just above my desk. On occasion, I pull one down and reread it, recalling why I placed it among my beloved titles in the first place. Oddly enough, I sometimes get more out of a book on the second time around, enjoying it to an even greater extent, observing finer detail with each passage and page. If, for whatever reason, I decide not to reread a book, I give it to someone or donate it randomly by placing it inside the Little Free Library in our neighborhood that my friend, Christine, installed several years ago. It’s no secret that I appreciate it as much or more than the neighborhood kids do.

I also have a to-be-read pile (TBR) in my home, stacked in the order I intend to consume each literary gem. One of the tenets I hold dear is that my TBR pile can never be depleted to zero. I have to know there is always another book waiting for me. Otherwise, I get anxious when I’m about to finish one if another isn’t lined up, at the ready. Quirky, I know.

But I doubt I’m as quirky as my husband by comparison. That man has the books he intends to read scattered all over the house, a few stashed in almost every room—in case sudden inspiration strikes, I guess. What’s more, he reads more than one book at a time. He calls it multitasking, of course. I call it madness. I have no idea how he keeps the narratives straight in his head. Heaven forbid he misplaces his bookmarks.

And despite the loads of encouragement I give him, he rarely agrees to read a book I suggest—even if I know in my heart of hearts that he’ll love it. Further, it’s almost impossible for me to convince him that he’d enjoy a novel. He usually goes for nonfiction like biographies or autobiographies on the topics of history, war, music and politics. Truth be told, I probably prefer nonfiction, too, although I have a few favorite novelists whose styles I can’t resist. At any rate, I’m seldom able to sway him to read just one of those writers.

On a related note, again and again he reminds me NOT to buy him another book—for Christmas, for his birthday, for Father’s Day, etc. And I fail to listen. The fact that I purchase yet another title for him is a manifestation of a terrible compulsion I feel each time I enter a bookstore—much like buying for myself. Oh well, I could have worse habits.

Thankfully, the greater Williamsport area is home to six wonderful libraries, the James V. Brown Library in Williamsport, the Konkle Memorial Library in Montoursville, the Jersey Shore Public Library, the Montgomery Area Public Library, the Muncy Public Library and the Hughesville Area Public Library. That said, we can always rely on them to provide wonderful book-related services for people of all ages and stages of life.

When all is said and done, there’s at least one thing my husband and I share when it comes to books—we not only love them, but we have enough sense to bring a good one along when we know we’ll be holed up at jury duty or at a garage getting our cars inspected, et al. Without fail, we’ll be there for hours on end and scrolling on a phone or watching TV will only suffice for so long.

Speaking of books, don’t miss the Second Annual Storytellers Book Fair hosted by Lycoming Arts in the Pennington Lounge at Lycoming College on Friday, May 15th from 4-7pm! There will be basket raffles, local author and artist meet-and-greets, book sales, mystery wine pull, community book swap, a discussion about PJ Piccirillo’s featured book (The Indigo Scarf) and a session regarding the publishing industry and book promotion (by Otto Bookstore General Manager, John Shableski). All proceeds from guest passes and activities will support Lycoming Arts and its work to connect our community through the arts. I’ll be there with bells on, signing my books. Hope to see you there!

Welcome to my world. It’s where I live (probably reading a good book). Visit me there at www.facebook.com/NotesfromPlanetMom. Signed books are available on Etsy at PlanetMomMarket.

2 Comments

Filed under Bookish Stuff, Captain Quirk, Home is Where the Weirdness Lives, Me Time, Normal is Relative, Unplugged

Tagged as books, hobbies, humor, library, marriage, marriage humor, reading

February 21, 2026 · 4:15 pm

A Sacrilege of Sorts

There are but two kinds of people in this world—those who brazenly read the endings of books before the endings are actually reached and those who would never dream of a crime so heinous. I myself fall with the masses into the latter category, always mindful of the tenets we must uphold: Thou shalt not spoil the endings of good books no matter how dire the circumstance or how great the temptation.

Of course I’ve been so bold as to glance at the last page while contemplating a purchase in the aisle of a bookstore, allowing my eyes to sweep across the fuzziness of passages, to graze but not actually rest on hallowed words, erasing all hope of ever being rewarded for my ability to resist that which is sinfully alluring. If nothing else, I can be proud of that.

However it wasn’t until I was deeply immersed in The Miraculous Journey of Edward Tulane (Chapter Seven of this scrumptious read-aloud, more specifically) that I became painfully aware of a terrible truth: my children would (and, in fact, had) flipped ahead 20 chapters in said prized piece of literature, to the very last page (gasp!) “…because I wanted to know what would happen to Edward, Mom. I was worried about him. He lives, you know.”

Of course, I was horrified. And profoundly disappointed. I had higher hopes for my progenies—hopes that they would grow to become upstanding citizens, embodying all-that-is-righteous-and-good. Principled people who knew better than to commit sacrilege. Instead, it appears, my wayward bunch has embraced the dark side of life. Even my oldest daughter has admitted to that which is a sheer disgrace—she reads the very last sentence of every novel—as a rule. Needless to say, such a divulgence rendered me speechless and unable to move from the spot where I stood, slack mouthed and struck with horror.

“Why?! Why would you do such a thing?!” I had to ask finally, eyes fixed upon the creature I thought I knew.

“I don’t know. To pique my interest I guess.”

“To pique your interest?!” I shrieked, shaking my head in disbelief. “Good grief! Where’s the mystery in that?! Where’s the long-awaited pleasure that a grand culmination promises?! The delicious sense of satisfaction derived from having journeyed far and wide across the vast and uncertain terrain of a narrative gem?!” I demanded to know.

She shrugged her shoulders as if to say, “What’s the big deal, Mom? It’s just a book.”

Of course, this was wrong on so many levels that I couldn’t begin to wrap my mind around the unspeakable horribleness of which it reeked. Nor could I forgive the other two rat finks for having stolen my joy. I wanted to discover for myself Edward Tulane’s fate—to continue devouring the book, page after succulent page, and eventually, to drink in the magnificence of the grand finale that surely awaited me.

But it was not to be. Those devilish creatures continued to fill my ears unmercifully with details of the story, doling out bite sized blurbages just to watch me writhe in pain. “No! NO! Don’t tell me a syllable more!” I pleaded, wondering from whence this penchant had come. I don’t remember anyone bursting at the seams to tell me all about Goldilocks or Little Red Riding Hood, Chicken Little or even the Poky Little Puppy. Back then, apparently, it was a non-issue. The end was something that would be revealed in due time upon turning the last page. As it should be.

I’d almost rather my heathens wantonly fling caterpillars across the living room and stuff them inside their backpacks (oh wait, they’ve done that!), saturate thirsty bath rugs at will (done that, too!), fill countless drawers with water enough to make hair brushes and blow dryers float (and that!), or plaster the dog with lipstick “…’cause we wanted to give him purple-ish lips, Mom!” than to rob themselves of the parting gift of a fine book.

Sadly, this represents yet one more area of life I cannot control. I must come to grips with the fact that my children will choose friends, careers and eventually mates—almost entirely devoid of my (infinitely sagacious) input. And ultimately they will decide whether to continue as card-carrying members of the Flip-Ahead-to-the-Last-Page Club. Ugh.

Planet Mom: It’s where I live. Visit me there at www.facebook.com/notesfromplanetmom