In my world, the term "diet" relates to some kind of environmentally-, morally- or health-motivated conscientiousness about one's food choices.
There are so many diets being followed around here: vegetarian, pescetarian, vegan, specific carbohydrate diet, lactose free, gluten free, paleo, organic only, local only, any combination of these, level five vegan, of course, and countless others, I'm sure. There's just so much conscientiousness going on.

I know, I know, I take a tongue-in-cheek tone, but it's only because I feel firmly rooted in both sides of this strangely divisive line in the sand. It seems with diets you're either in or you're out. I offer my ramblings, but please, take them with as little or as much consideration as you'd like.

First, I'd like to applaud everyone who has made a choice to be careful about the food they eat. It's important for so many reasons and I'd never hope to undermine your good work. For some, diet choices are a life and death issue, for others they may be a deeply important preference, and for still others they may be a way of creating sanity in an insane food environment. Rock on everyone.

I, as a member of this awesome club, however, will take a self-depricating tone when I offer to others not of my particular dietary persuasion that I can be rather persnickety about my food. Only, I'm extra persnickety compared to your average conscientivore because I'm (seemingly) constantly changing my mind about what's in and what's out. Also, I never seem to neatly fit a category and sometimes instead offer up "vegetarian" or "vegan" as a shorthand explanation to confused, curious and well-meaning folks.

Perhaps it goes without saying, but people want to know what we persnickety eaters eat because people like to share food. It's one of the most important ways that people connect with each other. So it behooves me and folks in my situation to a) try to make our preferences understood, when asked, and b) try to see beyond the facts about the food and focus instead on the symbolism of the shared food--awesomely, it usually means "I like you."

So, with that in mind, a few years ago, and as an irreverent vegan anyway (I was vegan except for In-N-Out Burger on road trips) I developed what I later termed "the hospitality clause," whereby I would accept and happily enjoy any home cooked meals offered to me regardless of their content. It really came out of a need for the terms of my diet to be more flexible. During my vegan days, I needed some way to be vegan and still enjoy my mom's food. It was important to both of us.

I call it the hospitality clause because often the terms we use to define our diets feel like a contract that we make with the world--if I say that I'm vegan, then everyone around me expects that of me and holds me to it. The hospitality clause is an addendum to this contract that lets me eat anything that a well-meaning host graciously offers. It preserves my ability to say to the offerer, "I like you too."

I've got a totally kick-ass breakfast to share with you. The kind of breakfast that you go to bed looking forward to, that despite the wholeness you feel after eating it, still leaves you alert and agile. Its so delicious, and yet, it came about because of a prescription from my doctor--a perfect example of how medicine inspires deliciousness. This breakfast is decadent, easy, and accidentally gluten free.

The nerd in me especially loves how each ingredient is an important player as a medicine.

Yogurt-- whole milk provides the volume and calories to chase away the hunger until lunchtime, and the live bacteria help support healthy gut flora. Also, of course, 60-year-old-Lorraine and her awesome bone density will thank the 30-year-old Lorraine of today for enjoying every calcium-laiden bite.

Pumpkin seeds, ground flax seeds, lemon flavored fish oil-- these three are a trio that my naturopathic doctor has instructed me to eat daily for two weeks of each month, followed by two weeks of a trio of sunflower seeds, sesame seeds and evening primrose oil. This is called "seed cycling" in the world of natural medicine, a protocol that capitalizes on the mimicry of human hormones that the natural oils in the seeds perform. The seeds are taken to help support normal female hormone cycling. I think of it like a swing: I'm on the swing and this fortnight's combination gently push me along in the right direction until it's time to switch and the other trio steps in to do its gentle work. By the way, the fish oil boasts loads of omega-3 fatty acids, which are deficient in most American diets, and the natural lemon flavor in the fish oil seriously takes this breakfast to the next level.

Probiotic Powder-- again, supporting healthy gut flora balance, which is essential for absorption of everything from macronutrients to vitamins, minerals and as-of-yet unknown required nutrients. This was also prescribed my my doctor, and it's not a weird addition at all, just mildly sweet and forgettable.

Jam, pumpkin butter, or fresh fruit-- of course, fresh fruit is the healthiest option, but when it's not around, I take this opportunity to enjoy gifted preserves from my mom. If I'm going to eat something sugary on my breakfast (and I am, dammit) I'm psyched when it tastes like summer and is in one of the many forms of my mother's love.

Cinnamon-- oh, cinnamon, freshly ground, you invade my dreams with your spicy sweetness. Let's keep dreaming through breakfast.

Almonds and walnuts-- Yes, of course, nuts are protein-packed and totally awesome, but these ones are extra special. My sister--ever fastidious about clean, whole foods--clued me into Mommypotamus' via Nourishing Traditions' method of soaking and dehydrating nuts, which leaves them way more awesome than your usual raw nuts. With most of the bitter undertones rinsed away, the delicate sweetness of the meat and subtle flavors of the oils are liberated, with an outrageously enjoyable crunch kicking off the whole party. The particular crunch is novel to me, so it's taken a few weeks to put it into words, but here it is, folks: it is a crunch that mimics the sound and feel of stepping on freshly fallen snow. What? Sign me up, every day.

I've been thinking about rituals lately. A very wise instructor of mine suggested that we as a population here in the US, don't have many rituals left in our daily lives anymore. She brought up ritual in the context of coffee addiction. Consider for a moment, your coffee ritual, if you are a coffee drinker. I always enjoy dressing my coffee, stirring it for a moment, smelling it and then taking that penetrating first sip. Some people conduct a more complex ritual involving grinding, boiling, percolating or pressing. Is it relaxing? Does it offer a sense of order to a busy morning? What other daily rituals do we still have?

Another enduring ritual that I can think of is reserved for smokers. There's something truly lovely about excusing oneself during a natural break in conversation to step outside into fresh air, and inhale deeply for a few minutes. It almost makes me envious of smokers.

Our instructor brought up ritual to caution us future doctors to be careful when we recommend smoking cessation or removing coffee consumption from our clients' lifestyles--we could inadvertently be removing something much more sacred to our client than just the substance. We can suggest, she pointed out, that our clients create new rituals with new, intentional meaning. Or maybe, at the right time, for the right person, tobacco leaf or coffee bean--two truly weary and abused herbs--can be replaced with another underappreciated, and eager herb or two.

My cohort is in the middle of a four-part class series called Pathology. It's exciting and interesting if you're into pictures of malformed tissues and details of aberrant cytokine patterns.

We have such packed schedules that I often try to eat lunch during Pathology lecture. Every time, though, I'm rudely reminded that the projected images can be disturbing. They're gross--sometimes stomach-wrenching gross--until I remember that these are people's bodies, and then, actually, it's heart-wrenching and sad.

I bring it up because this is an important, and I think affirming, distinction. It is the difference between thinking of disease states as being:

• pathology--the body doing something wrong, versus

• adaptive physiology--the body doing the best it can considering its setbacks and resources.

So when we see a slide of something gross like lung hepatization or aortic atherosclerosis, we're really just viewing the aftermath of the body's heart-wrenching struggle to make do. And heart-wrenching isn't more pleasant than stomach-wrenching, but at least I can eat.