So now, you'd think my life would be that of the carefree wife who knows exactly what her husband is up to and no longer cares. The trouble is, a new mistress has stepped onto the scene. Apparently one wasn't good enough for my man. And this bitch makes Running look like my BFF, if you can believe it. Her name is Health Food, and she's boring, bland, unsatisfying, and crunchy in a "I don't even need to wear deodorant" kind of a way. Even worse, she's decided to stick her nose exactly where it isn't needed or wanted: MY diet. And that, my friends, is a step too far.
|The good ol' days.|
At any rate, I got used to constantly smacking away Lardo's sticky fingers, but I wasn't prepared for Health Food. She kind of snuck in slowly in the form of weird supplements: chia seeds, spirulina, fruit-flavored cod liver oil (a personal fave). But whatever, John was still baking, butter was very much a part of my life, and no one had dared mention anything about carbs. And then, one wretched day, John stumbled upon Vinnie Tortorich's podcast and No Sugar, No Grains, and my life has pretty much been ruined ever since.
|Mommy is drooling (and weeping) off-camera.|
I'm not going to get into the science behind all this crap, mostly because I don't understand it and I don't particularly care to. The bottom line is, sugars and grains are bad for you. And that was news I simply didn't need to hear. Ignorance is bliss, and I have slowly been dragged by my once-loving husband into the fiery pits of knowledge, aka hell.
We spent two weeks in Spain and John wouldn't even look at the gelato, let alone breathe in the yeasty smell of freshly baked bread. If you know John, you know he (and I) used to live for dessert. We literally had dessert every day, sometimes twice a day. It's how we ended our day together - dessert in front of a favorite TV show. John and I were perfectly healthy NORMAL people. We exercised, we didn't eat a lot of processed food, we ran marathons (okay, in my case, marathon). We didn't need Health Food showing up and waggling her bony fingers in our faces, scolding us for the occasional french fry. But that's exactly what she did.
|All the stuff I didn't get to eat in Spain.|
As the weeks have gone on, more and more foods seem to disappear from John's repertoire. First went the grains of any kind, followed swiftly by added sugars. Since we don't eat meat, that basically limits us to veggies, the occasional fresh fruit (god forbid I nibble on a dried apricot every now and again), nuts, and fish. Even dairy got the ax recently, and John was practically living on sour cream for a while. I managed to ignore all this for a long time. John would glance pointedly at my plate of pasta and I'd whistle innocently and look the other way. Or he'd casually drop in a line about my breakfast of Kashi and milk and how my blood sugar was not going to thank me later. Then, the other day, when I was blithely licking peanut butter from a spoon, he did the unthinkable: he mentioned trans fats, and how I was basically killing myself by consuming my most favorite thing in all the world.
So you know what I did? I decided to prove to him that I didn't have a dependency on sugar and grains, that my lifestyle is a choice and I can take it or leave it at will. For about two weeks now, I've been on this b.s. diet of no sugar, no grains. Granted, I refused to give up cultured dairy, but for the most part, I've stuck to my word. I've been living on nuts (So. Many. Nuts.), the hideous dirt-covered veggies available here in Russia, fish when I can get it (seriously, if I hadn't started eating fish, I wouldn't have the strength to type this right now), fruit when no one is looking, and, for dessert, two squares of dark chocolate at the end of the day. And you know what?
Yeah, I admit it, I am a freaking miserable wreck. All I want is a giant baguette covered in butter and maybe even honey, or worse still, jam. I want pasta drowning in alfredo sauce, and I don't even like aldredo sauce. If I never see another cabbage, beet, or carrot, it will be too soon. If someone offers me another dried out, over-cooked, nasty ass piece of salmon, I'm going to shove it down their throat. And I'm sorry, but 95% dark chocolate shouldn't even count as chocolate. But I'm so hungry I savor those two piddly squares a day like they are creme-freaking-brulee. Creme brulee! Someone get me some goddamn creme brulee!
Um, where was I?
Oh yeah, Health Food. John takes offense at me mislabeling his mistress in such a fashion. He prefers Madame Whole Food, presumably, or Ms. NSNG. But call her what you will, there is no room in my life for this nonsense. John promises that when Western States is over in a month or so, Health Food will leave and I'll have my husband back. But I don't buy it. I don't believe he'll go back to baking once a week or that bread will ever make an appearance in this home again. Because he can never un-know the things he knows, and unlike me, he can't live happily ever after with the possibility of inflammation and clogged arteries. Honestly, I don't know what his problem is. It's almost like he's addicted to Health Food or something.