Guilt

Posted on by findingmykid
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Here in New York, next weekend, Developmental Delay Resources is sponsoring a three-day course on “Having Healthy Babies: Outsmarting Developmental Delays”—i.e., autism prevention. According to the event’s publicity page, the course will be devoted to pre-conception health, carrying and birthing healthy babies, and post-partum health.

It sounds provocative, and I think that some members of Team Martin (therapists, nutritionist, &c.) are planning to attend.

I can’t go, though. No way. From an emotional perspective, learning at this point about autism prevention would overwhelm me.

Martin’s cranio-sacral therapist is some sort of intuitive healer. She knows things. On Martin’s first visit to her, she was laying her hands on him, concentrating, murmuring about what seemed to be going on inside his gut. Suddenly she called to me to join them. I knelt beside where they were working on the carpet. The therapist had one hand resting on Martin’s head. She pressed the other hand against my breastbone.

“There’s a void here, something missing,” she said. “You’re not connecting completely with Martin.”

Excuse me?

She continued, “You’ve got to get rid of the guilt you’re carrying about his birth. You’ve just got to let that go and tune into the here and now.”

I was stunned. I had described to her how Martin was born, but I hadn’t used the word guilt. Not about his birth, or anything else. Yet she knew, and knew that it was getting in the way.

Martin’s birth was a series of decisions I did not want. Martin came late to the party; in the 42nd week of pregnancy, against my better instinct, I gave in and let the doctors induce labor. From there, it spiraled. On pitocin, my confused body produced increasingly long, unproductive contractions, until finally it barely unclenched between them. The doctor decided we needed to relax me artificially and ordered an epidural analgesia, which I also did not want. After nearly 16 hours of artificially induced labor, Martin got stuck, sideways, and his heart rate fell. By the time they wheeled me into the operating room and cut him out, I was (unsurprisingly) running a fever, meaning that Martin, who was healthy and alert with an APGAR of 9, was whisked away to the NICU.

So those were Martin’s first days in this world. Instead of coming to us naturally and snuggling into the loving arms of his parents, he met a surgeon’s scalpel and then slept with strangers under the offensive, blazing halogen of a noisy NICU.

I know that environmental factors play a role in autism. I wear the guilt of Martin’s traumatic birth, of my decision to allow pitocin. I wear it like a heavy jacket, pounds and pounds weighing me down.

Was birth trauma related to autism? What is related to autism?

I never should have got caught up in the H1N1 hype and given Martin that unnecessary vaccine. Or most of the other vaccines, either.

We had our kitchen rebuilt while I was pregnant. I breathed that dust daily. Mistake.

I used my Blackberry. All the time.

If there is such a thing as autism prevention, then there’s something I should have done differently. It will be a long time before I’m recovered enough to discuss that topic.

My Uneasy Relationship with Social Networking a/k/a the Reason Why I Blog About ASD Recovery

Posted on by findingmykid
12

Social networking must be a godsend to support-group people.

I’m not a support-group person. I don’t belong to any gathering of autism parents. I have very limited “community” when it comes to dealing with Martin’s issues. Social networking thus far has accomplished approximately nothing to assist with his recovery.

Instead—and I’ll admit that this is my own fault, as I seem wholly unable just to shut the darn Facebook off—what social networking does, mostly, is make me feel bad.

Don’t get me wrong. I love to read friends’ posts about their children doing sweet, standard kid stuff. Check out Billy’s first day of kindergarten! Sadie scored a soccer goal! Maria is nervous for the sixth-grade dance! Nothing threatening there.

What I dread are the conscientiously self-effacing triumphs of the über-mom. She’s usually a figure from my distant history whom I know today only on-line. A mom whose fashionable kids have highfalutin names, speak in clever quips, and misbehave only in adorable ways. A mom who prepares elaborate meals not because a recovery regimen demands it, but because once her little Aristotle discovered wasabi-infused ginger puree over sashimi skewers and pea cakes, she just had to make them weekly. A mom with perfect hair who doesn’t have to deal. With. Autism. (This is an amalgam. The über-mom is not one. She’s many. And she’s all over my Facebook page.)

I don’t know why posts about perfect kids bother me so much. Resentment? Bitterness? Deep down I know that if über-mom’s life were really so great, she wouldn’t be spending so much time on Facebook posting about how great life is. But when I’m worried about Martin, I don’t live deep down. I’m on the surface, where every wunderkind update feels like a dig against me and mine.

Before Martin’s diagnosis, I had two big experiences, one good and one bad, using a social network to address a child-rearing issue. The good experience arose in the morass of Martin’s early sleeping trouble. Adrian was away on business. At 9:30 pm I had just got Martin back to sleep for the third time. In frustration I signed onto Facebook and posted what was happening. Within half an hour, at least a dozen other parents (in this case, actual friends, people I know, not just disembodied Facebook presences from past life) responded with empathy, common experiences, and possible solutions. Already by the time Martin woke again, around 10:20 pm, I was feeling more confident, and accompanied by my misery’s company.

The bad experience arose in the context of a local “mothers’ group” I joined when Martin was born. This group met from time to time for coffee or to go walking, which I had done once or twice. (It felt awkward trying to become friends with other women based only on the coincidence of giving birth during the same season.) The group’s main function was on-line communication, stuff like babysitter wages and mommy-and-me classes. Around the time that our kids were moving to solid foods, I posted an inquiry about whether the group included any other vegan or vegetarian families. If so, I said, I’d like to get together to talk about nutrition and menus, and maybe to let the kids play so Martin wouldn’t think he was the only vegetarian in town. (I have vegetarian friends, but none with children who live in New York City.) The group’s moderator responded immediately and vehemently. She demanded to know why I was trying to split the mothers’ group along dietary lines. Did I think I was better than mothers who let their children eat meat? Did I have a problem with her giving her son chicken? What was next—would I be letting Martin play only with children whose parents are Democrats? I removed my post, befuddled, wondering how I’d managed to provoke such a reaction, and also why everyone assumes vegetarians are Democrats.

If I could get a cyber-beating for trying to connect with vegetarians, heaven only knows the peril of raising ASD recovery in a social-networking context. After seven weeks of blogging, already I can identify myriad ideas of mine that will cause some folks to bristle. Let’s start with my basic premise: that recovery from autism is possible. On the Twitter feed associated with this blog (@findingmykid), I follow at least one account with precisely the opposite take: that biomedical treatment of autism is “quackery.” And frankly, I have respect for that position. There are days when I myself just can’t believe that the mainstream medical community is suppressing the means to recovery from a condition that affects one in every 70 American boys. By now I’ve talked to enough parents who recovered their children to keep me going, but barely. (Quack away, my friends—it’s just enough to keep the skepticism at bay.)

So anyway, I’m not social networking. I’m blogging. The site is open for comments (I’ll “approve” any comment that is neither spam nor profanity-laced), and I expect to receive some that express disagreement. I hope to, even; that’s what makes a forum. Still, blogging feels less vulnerable than social networking. Maybe it’s because knowing that I’m expressing controversial views prepares me for backlash. Maybe it’s because I’m anonymous. Maybe it’s just because the blog is mine, as if I’m in control.

As if I’m in control of anything at all.

ASD Recovery Recipe: Noodles with Nut Sauce (Cheating Just a Little)

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Some foods I never cheat on when it comes to Martin’s diet. For example, I never slip in “just a little bit of soy” or “a pinch of refined sugar.” But every once in a while I do try to treat him with a scoop of an item typically off-limits. Tonight is one such occasion. As I’ve written, Martin’s diet now includes gluten-free grains, in moderation (typically no more than 1/4 cup per day). This is because he was getting some ketosis from all the fats, and because we’ve made good progress in eliminating yeast overgrowth. For dinner, I’ve made him buckwheat soba noodles with this nut sauce. The special ingredient? Chickpea miso. The original recipe called for sweet white miso, which as a soy product is totally off limits. I replaced it with chickpea miso. Chickpeas generally are too starchy for Martin’s diet, but hey, every kid needs to party now and then.  I use the South River brand, which is made with rice but gluten- and soy-free.

I’ve also sautéed some cauliflower in sesame oil with sesame seeds, which I will put on top of the noodles and nut sauce for a nice, complete meal.

I adapted this recipe from an old cookbook on my shelf, called The Peaceful Cook by Harriet Kofalk. One benefit of the cookbook, for us at this time, is that it uses nothing in the onion/garlic family. (According to the introduction, “These are stimulants, much like caffeine, and can negatively affect the subtlety of our internal processes.” Hmmm….)

1 cup walnuts or pecans, pre-soaked and dehydrated
1 cup vegetable stock, according to your child’s diet
3 tbsps chickpea miso

Roast the nuts in a dry pan until they are crisp. Combine the miso and stock in a blender or food processer and then, with the blades running, add the nuts a few at a time to form a saucy consistency. Toss with gluten-free noodles or pour over rice.

Martin Shoves a Book Into My Nose But Then Takes It Away. Hurray for Martin!

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Church went well this morning. Martin had two toy trucks—with soft plastic wheels, which are quiet on the sanctuary’s stone floor—a board book, and a sippy-cup to keep him amused. I carried my mother’s ASD-recovery-compliant coconut macaroons, and deposited one into Martin’s mouth whenever he got too chatty. Martin was a vending machine of sorts: for payment of a macaroon, he dispensed several minutes’ silence.

During the hymn of the day I stood and held Martin in my arms. Martin, in turn, shoved his board book into my nose, blocking half my face and forcing me to bend backwards at the neck. It was terribly uncomfortable. I met Martin’s eyes and shook my head at him. Actually, I rolled my head slowly side-to-side, as best I could with my nose compressed against the book. In any event, I meant, No. Don’t do that.

My hopes were dim that such a simple gesture could stop the behavior.

To my surprise, Martin obeyed. He removed the book, glanced at my face, and turned his attention instead to the parishioners around us.

Thirty seconds later, we repeated the same sequence. Book into nose. Head-shake no. Martin understanding and complying.

This was nice, very nice. I checked off what Martin had achieved. He’d correctly interpreted a non-verbal gesture, even recognized that I was serious. (Most shakes of my head are greeted with his laughter.) He’d obeyed. I knew he wanted to continue shoving the book into my nose, because he’d done it again. But then he’d obeyed again. Hurray for Martin.

The closing hymn, appropriate for 9/11, was This Little Light of Mine. The congregation sang slowly at first, then gained speed until everyone fired up and clapping. Martin stood in front of me. I held his arms above his head, helped him sway and dance. He was ecstatic. He looked around himself and up at me (joint attention!), his face contorted in smile. He shouted, “I’m gonna let it shine, let it shine, let it shine!”

We were on top of the world.

Of course, you can’t live in the real world and also be on top of it. At least not for very long. After church we needed to drive to Brooklyn. Fearing 9/11 street closures, we opted to take the Manhattan Bridge instead of the Brooklyn Bridge. This slight deviation from routine sent Martin into a frenzied tantrum, worse than we’d seen in months. I tried distracting him, making stern faces, ignoring, placating, hugging, to no avail. Martin was hanging out in that ASD place where every journey admits but one route.

When the tantrum was done, Martin returned to top form. We drove home and he accompanied Adrian to the park, charming and obedient. I resolved not to let a single blemish taint a magnificent day.

This little light of his, we’re gonna let it shine.

Anonymity. It’s Not Just for Criminals Anymore

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This blog’s “About” page states that I will explain the reasons why I am blogging anonymously. I have three reasons.

First, I am blogging anonymously for Martin’s protection. You may have read my various references to “Track One” treatments, or “Track Two” doctors, and so forth. The mainstream medical community does not accept that recovery from autism is possible. Only doctors on the cutting edge—the DAN! project and beyond—are willing to treat autism biomedically. Adrian and I have decided to exploit both traditional medical care (which I call Track One) and more radical biomedical intervention (which I call Track Two). Martin, therefore, sees not only his excellent Track Two doctor (and his N.D./allergist and his homotoxicologist and his cranio-sacral therapist) but also a battery of mainstream medical professionals at a preeminent New York-area facility, a/k/a the Big Imposing Hospital.

I have grown increasingly dissatisfied with the Track One doctors. I want to be able to state that fact, and the reasons why, without fearing that those professionals could read this blog and recognize Martin. Hearing angry or dissatisfied thoughts from Martin’s mother could cause a Track One doctor, knowingly or subconsciously, to compromise his care. I am not alleging that any Track One doctor is either prone to or even capable of changing a child’s care based on complaints from a parent. Although their approach does not work for us, I have great respect for the professionalism of Martin’s Track One doctors. I simply think it doesn’t pay to take chances. That’s probably the risk-averse lawyer in me.

Second, I’m not yet sure whether the story of Martin’s recovery is mine to tell. Really, it’s his story. If Martin does recover fully, will he want others to know he ever had autism? Is it fair for me to be so public with his struggles? Adrian and I reveal Martin’s autism to our closest friends, and to others who spend significant time with him. But we don’t tell everyone. Far from it. Even some family members don’t know. Adrian’s sisters don’t know. Martin’s condition doesn’t shame or embarrass us. We’re just dealing with it in our own way, which does not include a PA system.

Third—and this is the least of the reasons for anonymity; that I’m even revealing it falls under my promise of honesty—I want everyone to be able to relate to our journey, so that this blog can touch as many caregivers as possible. That includes eliminating what might unnecessarily make us seem different from other families. When I started this blog, Adrian and I discussed what names I should give him and Martin. No name works across every ethnicity, of course. But we felt like “Adrian” and “Martin” crossed about as many lines as one could expect without tending toward clear identification of any particular ethnicity. They are solid, attractive, and in the context of the 21st-century United States, reasonably generic names. (Adrian’s and Martin’s actual first names make it hard to mistake that, as any faithful reader of this blog already may have suspected, we are a Hispanic family.)

So that’s it. I’m blogging anonymously to protect Martin from repercussions; because I don’t know if Martin would want this information revealed about him; and in an effort to make us as much as possible like you, and you, and you and you and you.

Quote of the Day (or Week) (or Month?)

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I’ve written already about songs that are helping to keep me going. Every so often I stumble across a quote that helps, too. I’ve decided to post some. Here is the first in what should become an occasional series:

I looked at him with surprise. “St. John,” I said, “I think you are almost wicked to talk so. I am disposed to be content as a queen, and you try to stir me up to restlessness! To what end?”

“To the end of turning to profit the talents which God has committed to your keeping; and of which He will surely one day demand a strict account. . . .”

Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre. Sure, variations on this theme pop up in the Bible (“From everyone who has been given much, much will be demanded; and from the one who has been entrusted with much, much more will be asked.” Luke 12:48 (New International Version)), and Spiderman (“With great power comes great responsibility.”), and goodness only knows where else. The Jane Eyre version, with the keeping of accounts and such, feels both academic and motivational. Odd combination.

I won’t try to explain how this quote relates to the fight against autism. I’m probably giving my writing too much credit, but I aspire to post stories that tend to make such explanation unnecessary.

ASD Recovery Six-Month Review: Behavior

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Last year around this time, I thought I was a bad parent.

I have limited experience with young children, so I had only an inkling of how difficult managing a two-year-old should be. I just knew that watching Martin utterly exasperated me. He would not respond when I called him; he failed to follow the simplest directions; my anger, or annoyance, only amused him; time-outs produced no effects; the simplest task (putting on shoes, getting out the door) blossomed into a twenty-minute test of nerves.

I am not a loud person. Nor am I aggressive toward my child. Still, I found myself yelling, struggling to command, if not his obedience, then at least his attention.

The evening hours, when Samara had gone home and I needed to prepare dinner, hurt the most. Unable to occupy himself for more than a few seconds, Martin whined continuously, ran circles around our staircase, caused injury to himself or our possessions. These evening hours were my primary time with Martin, and I should have relished them. Instead, I sometimes dreaded Samara’s departure. That’s hard to admit. But it’s true.

Martin’s ASD diagnosis helped little. For the first time I understood why we struggled, and my empathy for Martin grew. Understanding and empathy, however, did not translate into increased ability to control his behavior. I was lost.

Six months into biomedical treatment of Martin’s autism, he does not behave perfectly, or even as a three-year-old with typical self-control might. For example, if I’m not next to him, reminding him to stay and eat, Martin wanders away from the breakfast table. He can be hyperactive. Although we’ve taught him the meaning of “clean up,” he has a narrow appreciation for order. When he’s done with a toy or object, he drops it and walks away. By dinnertime, chaos overtakes the apartment.

And the toughest part is that, with limited exceptions, Martin remains unable to read facial expressions or comprehend displeasure. He still considers almost any display of emotion humorous. Last night, as he was falling asleep, Martin repeated, dozens of times, “Martin, I am angry with you. Martin, Mommy is angry,” and laughed. That pretty much encapsulated my attempts at discipline.

Nevertheless, we’ve seen improvement in Martin’s ability to play and mastery of his own actions—skills that enable me to look forward to our time together. (Now that his new school has started, our time has shifted to the early-morning hours, with a bedtime addendum.) Simply because he does not need to keep constantly in motion, Martin finds less trouble to get into. The improvements in his attention and play skills mean that I might find him quietly building a chain of trains or looking through a book while I prepare a meal. With better receptive language, he understands more and more what I want him to do, and he often goes along with minimal cajoling. He also seems to know that eventually Mommy will get her way; when he’s in an amenable mood, he’s fine with Mommy prevailing sooner rather than later.

I haven’t raised my voice in weeks, except for the occasion when Martin slipped his hand from my grasp and ran into an active parking lot.

Of course, this isn’t all from the biomedical intervention. I’ve learned how better to handle Martin’s needs, such as transitioning him away from an object of obsession (like a guitar). A dedicated team of behavioral therapists also has helped. Finally, Martin is maturing.

Even ASD kids mature, right?

It’s the First Day of Special-Education Preschool. Martin Is Not Ready to Graduate

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Martin started his new school today. His fellow students are very high-functioning. Three-quarters of them I would have assumed to be typically developing, had we met in any setting other than a special-education preschool.

Adrian, my mother, and I all delivered Martin to his teacher. Adrian snapped a dozen pictures. We left one at a time: my mother, then Adrian, and finally I. Martin protested mildly when I left, a few Mommy whimpers. I thought the parting went well.

He’s in a 12-student, one-teacher, two-assistant (“12-1-2”) classroom now, for five-and-a-half hours per day. That’s a big jump from his former school, where he participated in a seven-student, eight-teacher group two hours daily. His old school recommended an 8-1-3 class for this year, based on his difficulties with “attending” in a group setting; we reached to get him placed in the more advanced 12-1-2.

I returned to pick him up this afternoon and asked the teacher how Martin’s day had gone.

He did well, she responded, her tone even and unenthusiastic.

“I perceive some hesitation?” I inquired.

He had some trouble with transitions, she owned. She expects that to lessen as Martin learns his new routine. (Transitioning is moving from one activity to another. We’ve made progress in that area, but Martin still might tantrum when ending activities he enjoys, such as music.)

I decided to push. “How was his attending?”

He did need to be redirected throughout the day, the teacher said. Attending is a skill they will be working on all year long.

I walked away from the conversation disappointed. What I had fancifully longed to hear was an implication that Martin performed so well in the 12-1-2 classroom that he would probably soon be ready for a 15-1-2. What I had thought was realistically possible to hear was that Martin belongs in a 12-1-2 classroom and is up to snuff.

What I instead read into the teacher’s words was a suggestion that Martin may not yet be far enough along to keep up with the highest-functioning special education kids.

That was hard.

My rational side sees that it’s silly to think a first-day analysis can predict the year. My hopeful side believes that wherever Martin is now, he will continue to improve.

But my fragile side, the side that autism has left naked and raw, is wounded by the acknowledgment of Martin’s current shortcomings, even if I know them myself.

A few minutes after I spoke with Martin’s teacher, the school’s director of admissions, who was mingling with parents making first-day conversation, approached me and asked how I was feeling.

Martin had some trouble transitioning, I responded.

“Of course he did. They all do the first day,” she said.

And his attending still needs work, I said. At this point something in my manner must have signaled my frustration, because the director switched to a tone of voice both matter-of-fact and consoling.

“Oh, but you knew that,” she said. “You know his attending needs work.”

It’s true. I know. I know that we have far to go.

ASD Recovery Six-Month Review: Attention

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As I described in a previous post, Martin almost always had sleeping problems. The Big Imposing Hospital fired a variety of diagnoses at the sleeping issues—Restless Leg Syndrome, anxiety, improper home environment—hoping one would stick. No one there connected Martin’s inability to settle himself with autism, and neither did we.

No, the beacon of Martin’s real issue, for me and Adrian, was instead his attention. Or rather, his lack of attention.

Sitting and paying attention is difficult for a two-year-old. For Martin, it was infeasible, for any length of time. Unless lethargy overcame him, or he was strapped into a high chair or stroller, he simply could not stop moving and sit down. In the event he was able, with the “assistance” of an adult, to sit, he lasted only moments before becoming agitated. His toddler soccer class, which consisted mostly of toddlers scattering, gamely accommodated his unique style of participation. His pre-pre-school class for two-year-olds, on the other hand, kicked him out. Martin required an extra teacher to keep him from disturbing the class, they said, which was an amenity they were not willing to provide.

Back then Martin lacked joint attention. He did not engage with other children. He did not follow what they did. He did not imitate. He did not involve his parents or Samara in what he was doing. He commented on what he saw—Airplane! Moon! Mailbox! —but the soundtrack seemed to be for his own amusement; he made no effort to make sure we shared the experience. Indeed, he spent much of the day in Martinland, a private island of his own making, inhabited only by him, in his own head.

He responded to his name maybe 20% of the times we called it. On a good day.

He often drifted about the perimeter of the room, running his hand along walls and heat registers, apparently aimless. He kept his obsessions (musical instruments) constantly in hand. Other toys and books, however, he yanked from the toy chest and then dropped after no more than a second or two. We never saw him play with those toys in the manner in which they were intended, or in any manner. A toy truck might as well have been a stuffed zebra, from Martin’s perspective. They both ended up discarded.

And of course he had the shifty gaze. He avoided eye contact. If I forced him to meet my eyes, if I cupped his face to mine and used my palms as blinders, he cried immediately. One day last fall, before the official diagnosis, a girlfriend of mine squatted to address Martin in his stroller. Though she was no more than 18 inches from him, Martin gave no indication that he saw or heard her. He looked to some distant point, in a kind of fog. My friend asked, not unkindly, “Why is he doing that? Is something wrong?” I responded that we really should get going.

As of today, Martin seldom visits Martinland. The aimless wandering has stopped. He responds to his name 80% of the time, I estimate. Eye contact is regular and routine. As for joint attention, he has not advanced to typical three-year-old behavior, which would be calling Mommy! Mommy! or otherwise seeking my attention before he speaks. But he has started to look at me (or Adrian, or Samara) when he does speak, to make sure that we’re listening. He no longer releases comments into thin air. He now directs them toward someone. For example, if he’s watching Sesame Street and someone dives into the water, Martin shouts, “He’s in the water!” and then turns to make sure we saw it too.

Slowly he has begun to engage with other children. Usually the other child has to initiate the play. Once that’s accomplished, Martin joins in happily, such as chasing and seeking to be chased, or sitting in a playhouse. He shows an interest now in what others are up to. Last week he played for some minutes with a girl he knows, climbing playground equipment and running together. The fun stopped only when she wanted to catch and throw a ball, which is a physical skill Martin is yet to acquire.

Despite the improvements, attention is an area with room to grow. According to the teachers at his last school, Martin continues to have difficulty “attending,” which seems to be the official word for “doing what the rest of the kids are doing.” When the class sat in a group, Martin required constant redirecting to the task at hand. And the gulf still stretches between Martin and other kids when it comes to wanting others to see what he sees. I await the day when Martin approaches me with Mommy! not because he wants a cracker or drink or cuddle, but because he wants to tell me something, to relay some observation, be it earth-shaking or trite.

Overall, though, it is fair to say that over these past six months Martin has become more present. He is more with us, more in our world.

We couldn’t be happier to have him.

ASD Recovery Recipe: Umm, Like, White Chili? Or Stew? Chili-Like Stew?

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This began as a recipe for “vegetarian white bean chili” that I had found someplace and copied onto a note card. Of course, the loss of tomatoes, peppers, onions, and garlic from Martin’s current diet means that “chili,” in its usual form, does not work for us. So I changed nearly every ingredient in the recipe and came up with something between root-vegetable chili and a stew. It was delicious. Martin ate the chili/stew as is. After Martin went to bed, I set aside a portion for his next-day lunch and mixed the remainder into tomato sauce, which I served with gnocchi for me, Adrian, and our houseguests. Happiness all around.

1/4 cup oil (I used sunflower)
1 cup navy beans, pre-soaked
1.5 cups vegetable juice (I juiced an acorn squash, two parsnips, and some celery)
1 turnip, diced
3 ribs celery, diced
1 yellow squash, peeled and diced
1/4 cup fresh cilantro, chopped
1 tbsp fresh oregano leaves
1 tbsp fresh basil, chopped
1/2 tsp ground cumin
1 tsp celery salt (I used my mother’s, which is all celery and no salt)

Half-cook the pre-soaked beans in filtered water, until they are softened but not squishy, then drain. Combine the half-cooked beans with the vegetable juice and squash; cook over medium-high heat. Meanwhile, sauté the turnip and celery in the oil until soft. When the beans are almost cooked through, add the turnip-celery mixture and the spices. Finish cooking.