Belly and the Beast
So with Thanksgiving pigdom come and gone, and a best friend who cooked up a number of nummy treats while she was here, including a dreamy Gratitude coconut creme pie made of dates, coconut and coconut butter, I should be relishing the chance to get back to my simple life of miso soup and kale.
But I’m not. My belly is tangling with an ogre of desire, unleashing with full force a primordial drive for comfort food. Why I am looking to food for quantity and texture rather than quality and taste is beyond bothersome. I know beyond a shadow of a doubt that a lot of it is SAD. Not all, but a lot. Why am I not hauling my ass to Phoenix? I am ripping what’s left of my hair out because I have begun the annual winter weight gainathon. If there was an Olympic race for weight gain, I would definitely be on the winning team.
Pardon me while I spiral out of control.
Remembrances of that food workshop I took several months ago still permeate my thoughts. Especially now, accompanied by an extra helping of guilt for not being able to follow through with it. I know there are people who are having daily orgasms with food, even in seasonally-disordered Oregon. Food that is the tastiest to me generally requires lots of preparation time and energy, or is loaded with sugar/salt/carbs/chocolate/all of the above. I love juicing but it takes time and I hate doing dishes and the juicer has to be cleaned every time or else the veggies will stain it. AND YES I WOULD LIKE SOME FOOD TO GO ALONG WITH THIS WHINE.
I’d like to regain my original stance as Martyr for Diets Composed Mainly of Green Leafy Vegetables. I suppose I need to realign my thinking to believe there is an orgasm to be had.
Cabbage, my sweet. Has your head not rotted in the fridge? Might we get jiggy in a stir-fry?
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