by Babe Walker
4 organic blueberries
1 tablespoon fresh carrot juice
4 tablespoons fresh lemon juice
4 tablespoons fresh lime juice
1 star fruit
3 tablespoons fresh kiwi juice
1 whole orange
¼ cup fresh mango juice
1 teaspoon raw honey
1 teaspoon fresh bee pollen
1 cactus flower
¼ cup Babe’s Cactus Flower Tea (Bring ½ cup water to boil, add one drop of rosewater and a cactus flower from the Mojave Desert that has been given a “purpose and joy” blessing from your shaman. Place in refrigerator to chill for exactly twelve hours before using.) Handful of ice cubes made from alkaline charged water Pellegrino to taste
Soak the almonds in a covered Pyrex pan of alkaline-charged water for 3 days. Pat dry and peel off almond skins. Place peeled almonds back into uncovered Pyrex pan and allow to sprout for four more days. Place all ingredients in power blender and blend on HIGH for 3 rounds of 109 seconds. Add tablespoons of Pellegrino to taste while pulse blending for an additional minute.
OMEGA 3 HAIR AND SKIN REJUVENATION SMOOTHIE
You will literally glow after drinking this. Not for smoothie beginners—it’s taken me nine years to be able to drink an eight-ounce glass.
SERVES: 1
TOTAL PREP TIME: 10 minutes
8 ounces fresh salmon sashimi
1 teaspoon organic, cold-pressed, extra virgin olive oil
1 pinch Himalaya salt
Juice of 2 lemons
2 tablespoons Greek yogurt
2 tablespoons ground flaxseeds
½ cup tomato juice
Handful of spinach
3 oysters
Combine all ingredients in power blender and blend on HIGH for 2 minutes, or until frothy. Serve immediately.
TOOTHPASTE SMOOTHIE
This is a great way to combat cravings for solid food. It leaves your mouth with a minty, fresh, come-hither taste that you won’t want to ruin with a messy bowl of pommes frites! And it’s calorie-free! Enjoy!
SERVES: 1
TOTAL PREP TIME: 5 minutes
1 tablespoon Toms of Maine organic toothpaste
1 tablespoon fresh chopped organic mint leaves
5 tablespoons Pellegrino
Mix ingredients in food processor for 30 seconds. Pour into shot glass. Swish in mouth for 1 ½ minutes. Spit mixture into nearby sink.
¡ARRIBA! COFFEE SMOOTHIE
Whenever I’m feeling like my metabolism needs a little jump start, I make this smoothie and it totally does the trick.
SERVES: 1
TOTAL PREP TIME: 5 minutes, with a possible 8-hour elimination period.
¼ cup raw cacao
4 shots of espresso
1 tablespoon ground cayenne
1 cup brewed kopi luwak
3 tablespoons hemp milk
Splenda to taste
Place all ingredients in high-powered blender, except for hemp milk and Splenda. Blend on HIGH for 2 minutes. Pour in hemp milk. Blend on pulse for 1 minute while adding Splenda to taste. Don’t leave the house for the next 6–8 hours. Stay close by a toilet if you can. Good luck!
LEMON SMOOTHIE
This is a refreshing, super-low-cal treat. Using a whole lemon, including the skin, maximizes nutrient absorption. Also this smoothie is the perfect silent companion for lying out by the pool and reading magazines.
SERVES: 1
TOTAL PREP TIME: 10 minutes
1 cup crushed ice made from alkaline-charged water
2 whole lemons, halved
4 packets of Splenda
1 egg white
Blend ingredients together for 5 minutes. Yum.
He’s not a doctor, a lawyer, or a prince.
My dad was battling a terrible epidemic that must be brought to our attention: stubborn belly fat. Tummy weight leads to heart disease, which leads to orphaned me. I couldn’t just stand by and watch the most important person in my life accept this cruel fate, so I fired our longtime chef, Frederic, and started a search for some new blood in the kitchen. I tried to steal the chefs at a few hot restaurants in town, but none of them could work around my diet restrictions: no white ingredients, no grains, and if my poop sinks, you’re fired. Then there was an exhaustive but fruitless screening process that included two trips to the South of France and my dad’s guest appearance as a judge on Top Chef. I was desperate. Was there no one who could make my dad thin again?
And then, fate intervened. My dad was at a small dinner party at a really big client’s house and was so blown away by the meal that was served that he hired the chef, Jean-Raphael Guillaume Louis, on the spot. I’m normally the one making these types of major decisions, but I trusted my dad’s opinion—especially after hearing that Jean-Raphael’s meals were typically five bites or less and never took more than two minutes to eat. JR began working for us the following week.
Side note: Hiring a chef is never as easy as it sounds. Most people think that you just decide on someone, hire them, and then live the rest of your life in healthy, delicious bliss. The truth is, training and consulting your chef is a grueling, time-consuming process. Much like training a full-bred German shepherd. They’re great listeners, but at the end of the day, discipline is the key to a successful relationship.
On JR’s first day of work, I came downstairs to the kitchen and opened the fridge to find a frothy glass of some green, smoothie-like substance sitting on my designated shelf. I was pleased to see that JR had done his research and knew that I started weekdays with a kale smoothie. But we hadn’t even had our first one-on-one consultation, so I wondered how he could have known what ingredients I considered acceptable. The texture and color looked promising, so I was encouraged. I positioned myself in the doorway of the fridge, facing in. This is how I take most of my meals, so that nobody sees me eat. I cautiously reached for the glass and took a tiny sip of my first Jean-Raphael smoothie.
It was so next-level. The splash of kale, swishing around harmoniously with the quiet and controlled robustness of the agave, all dancing on a pond of finely crushed organic ice, dripping down my esophagus like a cool rain. I do my best never to associate food with pleasure, but my senses overwhelmed me and I couldn’t help myself. I became aroused and began to moan and writhe in ecstasy. I was uninhibited.
My moaning was getting louder and the intensity of my pleasure was deepening. In all of my personal commotion I failed to realize that I was no longer alone in the kitchen. Jean-Raphael had apparently returned from our garden sometime between my first sip and me practically climaxing in front of the fridge. I turned around and was mortified to see a gorgeous stranger staring at me. This was supposed to be my private moment, but it was very clear that Jean-Raphael had seen the whole thing. Um,
1. Why is Olivier Martinez in my kitchen?
2. Did my father really think it was okay to hire someone who looks like this?
3. Would I sleep with someone who works for me?
4. Did I really just have a foodgasm in front of a man I don’t know?
5. Did I really just have a foodgasm, period?
6. Why me?
I was face-to-face with the most beautiful chef that ever walked the face of this earth. He was so French, so masculine, and so perfectly unkempt. I said something that I have never said before and have never said since. “Is there any more of this smoothie laying around?” Jean-Raphael, who had been staring at me blankly, shook his head no and grabbed the small towel that was draped over his shoulder, approached the slack-jawed smoothie whore that was me, and very gently wiped my face of the excess smoothie.
“Je m’appelle Jean-Raphael,” he said with a grin.
“Je m’appelle Babe.”
There was no denying the chemistry between us. My feet were glued to the imported Brazilian tiles. JR and I were staring each other up and down.
“That was one of the best smoothies I’ve ever tasted. Let me guess, organic kale, oxygen-infused
ice, one strawberry, a handful of blueberries, half teaspoon of agave nectar, spirulina, coconut oil, coconut meat, coconut hair and . . . an egg white?”
“Oui. Impressive.”
“Delish. Next time, lose the agave. It’s as bad for you as corn syrup. You should use raw honey instead. I just read that on GOOP. I apologize for that ghastly display just a second ago. I’m not a whore, I swear.”
“There is no problem with enjoying something I prepared for you.”
Sometimes when I meet a guy I like, I start lying uncontrollably right off the bat. “Well, I have a super-busy day ahead, so I better get started on all of my . . . work—charity, e-mails, voice lessons, Pilates, and everything else. So maybe I’ll see you around, but probably not, because as I said, I’m swamped right now. With e-mails and voice mails and brushing my teeth and hair and just work in general. Biiiiyeee.”
Smiling, I slowly backed away until I was sure I was out of his eyeline, then I ran up to my bathroom. I placed my hands on the marble countertop surrounding my sink and slowly looked up into the mirror, emitting a horrific and deafening silent scream. I was in love with my chef, Jean-Raphael. This was a major problem. Not only was it going to limit my ability to walk around my house in sweatpants, but I’m also not comfortable with a man I’m sexually attracted to knowing every single piece of food I eat. It’s creepy.
For three weeks, I avoided the kitchen at all costs. It seemed to be working really well, plus I was definitely eating a lot less, but I knew it couldn’t last. One night, I was suffering from designer’s block. I had spent hours sketching on my iPad, but I couldn’t come up with any designs for my leather scarf line that felt natural. I needed to clear my head and unwind, so I went down to the kitchen to meditate and give myself a little treat. My favorite indulgence late at night is one of my own creations. I call them: Splenda Bites. They’re perfect for a 4th of July party or anytime you’re feeling a little naughty and need something sweet to reward yourself. My secret is that I make thirty at the beginning of every month so I can eat one per day. During the holidays I make sixty.
Here’s the recipe:
SPLENDA BITES®
SERVING SIZE: 1 bite
AMOUNT PER SERVING: Calories: 0, Total Fat: 0 g, Sodium: 0 mg, Protein: 0 g
SERVES: 30
TOTAL PREP TIME: 10 minutes
FREEZE TIME: 5 hours
Approx. 5 cups filtered, organic, antibiotic-free water (If you can’t find this, then bottled water will have to do.)
30 packets of Splenda
Combine the water and the Splenda in a large mixing bowl. Stir. Pour mixture into 3 standard-sized ice cube trays. Place on level surface in Sub-Zero freezer for 5 hours. This is a great opportunity to take a quick nap or catch up on current events. Remove ice trays from freezer and enjoy.
*Note: You can always add a garnish to enhance your experience. For example, if your chef is doing Mexican night, garnish your Splenda Bites with lime. Then fire your chef. Mexican night? Are you kidding me?
So there I was, standing over an open freezer, a Splenda Bite melting in my mouth, examining the protrusion level of my hip bones, when I realized I wasn’t breathing. The ice was lodged in my throat, choking me. Unable to move or scream for help, I accepted my fate and closed my eyes, praying that my death would be quick and painless.
Suddenly, there was a presence behind me. I knew it was a man, because I could smell his skin. I felt his hands wrap around my waist, gripping me tightly. They were big hands and they were caressing my frozen body. At first I was startled, but something was happening. I was so lost in the rush of heat that I almost forgot I was seconds away from expiring. I had never been touched like this before. He was squeezing me, over and over with force. Then, like a bullet from a loaded gun, the Splenda Bite shot straight out of my mouth.
I turned to see who had saved my life, only to be met with Jean-Raphael’s handsome face. He looked so chiseled in the uplighting of the Sub-Zero freezer drawer. That body! He reached out and tucked a loose wisp of hair behind my ear and rested his hand on my shoulder.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Then I kissed him. Hard. It was incredible. He hoisted me up on the marble countertop and we made out for I don’t even know how long. Finally, we stopped and I had a chance to realize what had happened. I wanted more.
“You know, I’m in the kitchen around this time every night for a Splenda Bite. Maybe you should keep an eye out for me in case I almost die again.”
“Or maybe I could teach you to make something more delicious, like sorbet.”
“Don’t try to change me.”
I hopped off the counter and walked myself right up to my room, leaving Jean-Raphael to deal with what had just happened in his own French way.
From that moment on, everything was different. By day, we would pass each other in the hallways and in the kitchen like nothing was going on between us. By night, we would embrace in the shadows of the “moonlight” setting on the Lutron lighting system in our kitchen. Jean-Raphael would prepare something delicious, I would move it around on my plate a little bit, and then we would fuck for hours.
Divided by class, united by the cosmos, our forbidden love was elevated with every encounter that we shared. A shoulder graze as we passed each other in the hallway felt like a long, passionate embrace. A stolen kiss in the pantry felt as if it were as powerful as an hour in bed together. We were falling for each other, and I loved how wrong it felt. I mean, this was my fucking chef we’re talking about! It doesn’t get more Romeo and Juliet than that.
For a brief moment, Jean-Raphael was my everything. I convinced myself that it could work, but it truly wasn’t meant to be. There was no way we would be able to pull off this relationship long-term. He was my family’s employee and he wore Crocs. I was so afraid of being found out by the other staff members or my father that I would go out of my way to treat JR like shit in front of them. So I decided to end it. I did my best to let him down gently one morning over coffee.
“JR, I love that you have a huge dick, but this isn’t working. You’re my family’s employee, and you wear Crocs. We’re over. Don’t blame yourself. It’s not in the stars.”
He actually took it really well, which was annoying. Who knows? Had JR not been my chef, we might have had something solid. But in the end I couldn’t justify a relationship with someone who gets off on the smell of bread. I am Babe, and I have my rules. Although I may not always stick to them, I always end up on the right side of them. JR and I still fuck on occasion when I’m bored (and once when I was stoned), but he knows it’s never going to be more than that.
I need a therapist to talk about the problems I’m having with my therapist.
By the way, I’ve been seeing my therapist, Susan, since I was seven. She’s my only friend who lets me talk about myself without making me feel guilty, so I can forgive her penchant for gray skirt suits. I can also forgive her retro-thick-rimmed-glasses situation, and I want to be cool with her tendency to take off one shoe mid-session, but honestly, and I’ve said this before, feet sick me the fuck out. But what can I do? Her feet, her life. I have to accept her just as much as she accepts me. So, in a lot of ways, I guess I’m her therapist.
I used to think everyone should be in therapy, until a few months ago, when I had a really bad session with Susan that led to us breaking up. I haven’t seen her since that fateful Tuesday afternoon. I was at Susan’s safari-chic office in Santa Monica, lounging on her Ralph Lauren Home distressed leather couch, and having what I believed was a major breakthrough. I remember this because I was wearing a new Dries Van Noten skirt that I was obsessed with.
“I don’t know, Sue, I’m on the verge of something. It’s like, I’m tired of always having to be the strong one in my relationships with men. When do I get to break down? When do I get to have a soft side, or be vulnerable? I’m done picking up the pieces of other people’s broken lives. I think I need to start smoking more weed, don’t you think?”
Susan said nothing, which I interpreted to mean, “Go on,” so I continued to delve into my revelations until our time was up. I grabbed my bag and turned to smile at Susan, and noticed that she was slumped in her chair, eyes closed, head back, mouth agape like a baby bird’s.
“Oh my God, Susan, did you just die of an aneurysm?”
I said her name repeatedly, but she wouldn’t budge. No response. I was dialing 9-1-1 when I heard a little snore. Susan wasn’t dead, she was asleep. Lights out.
At first I was disappointed. I’d just poured my heart out to Susan and she’d missed it because of her apparent narcolepsy. Then I felt hurt—I mean, anyone would take it personally if his or her therapist/psychopharmacologist/best friend fell asleep in the middle of a personal epiphany. Finally I landed at the emotion that felt the most natural: ANGER.
I cannot abide anyone falling asleep on me while I’m speaking to them, let alone my therapist. I couldn’t believe the nerve of this overeducated hussy. I wanted to smack her in the jaw, but instead I did something else. I found a purple Sharpie on Susan’s desk and drew a cartoony dick and balls on her pterodactyl face.
Mid-sketch, I noticed a piece of paper with my name on it sticking out of a file on Susan’s lap. I grabbed the file and opened it to a page entitled Barbara Walker: Client Breakdown.
Susan F. Newman
11312 15th Street #103
Santa Monica, CA 90404
CA LIC # 10208-1224
CLIENT BREAKDOWN
PATIENT: Barbara Walker
DIAGNOSIS: Narcissistic Personality Disorder
CRITERIA:
Barbara Walker exhibits an unrealistic sense of self-importance as evidenced by her admitted dynamics with friends and house staff. She is convinced that she is “special” and feels more comfortable associating with other “special” individuals or groups. She exhibits a strong sense that she is entitled to more than she has earned or deserves. She has delusions of success, intellect, and physical beauty that are not based in reality, but based on a false notion that she is a hardworking individual. Barbara wavers on the ability to empathize with, or recognize, the feelings of others. She is sometimes unwilling to accept responsibility for her actions when their outcome is negative. Due to her underlying insecurities and doubts about herself, she is constantly seeking admiration and praise from those around her.