Wheat-Free + Meat-Free = Homicidal Me

Ok, not the kind of homicide perpetuated against humans. No, I mean the Pavlovian sounds my salivary glands make every time Chutney the cat slinks by. I have fallen that low. Months of sporadic adherence to the anti-Christ of all things named "Franks," "Ham," and "Turducken" has made me hot for my cat's meaty thighs. I'm a carnivore at heart. Even a reluctant cannibal, if the circumstances warranted the forbidden bloodlust. I just have to face it. Rice noodle Mac & Cheese with Tofu bits disguised as Pork Pig doesn't float my culinary boat. I like the sound of teeth ripping through flesh. Not my own - yet.

If Crap Had an Asshole...

my dinner would be shooting out of it. A variety of gut-busting seeds and nuts pulverized in some high speed blended then sprinkled over a burnt piece of tofu. Fuck you, genetics. I coulda had a small ass. I coulda been slender. I coulda been somebody, instead of having a big bum...I know lame "On the Waterfront" quote but I feel a little like Marlon Brando. Slim and sexy in my youth, thick and pasty in my middle age. I suppose there are worse things than tofu. I'll think about it and get back to you.

The Other White Meat

I must admit, I love pork. The kind of love that might be considered forbidden between a human and a walking, squealing thick slice of bacon. My salivary glands start pumping at the mere mention of pig. If I were on death row, my last meal would involve a skewered wild boar and a candied apple. I'd rather eat bacon than have sex most nights - especially if it's applewood smoked. But seeing that I'm now committed to saving pig lives and, instead, butchering root vegetables, I must pledge my love elsewhere. Rutabaga anyone?  

Glutenous is Next to Godlessness

Yeah so, I've been absent for seven fucking months, devouring as much villainous gluten as I could get my Pillsbury dough boy fingers on. Oh and yes, I fucking loved shoving the spongy combination of yeast, flour, and salt down my eagerly widening gullet. I didn't fucking care. It made the trip down my esophagus easier by slathering a generous dollop of butter on each brick-sized piece before I crammed it in. Seven months of unbridled food debauchery. My ass begged me stop, inflating slowly like one of those cheap swimming pool flotation devices you buy at Target.

So here I am - in October - with an ass the size of a giant's gonad.

I'll keep you posted.  

My Cat is Elvis' and Satan's Love Child

Okay - I know Elvis and Satan were men and a child two men cannot make.  And unless someone has some nifty video he/she would like to share, I've never seen woman pop out a feline, either.  So suspend your belief for a nanosecond when I tell you my cat, Chutney, is equal parts rock-n-roll and Lucifur. How in God's Green Earth does this have anything to do with my diet, you ask?  It doesn't, unless you consider Elvis slathered himself in fried banana and peanut butter sandwiches and Satan has a particular affinity for barbeques.  In other words, my evil tabby routinely undermines my diet.  There she sits, lounging upon her synthetic pillow thingy, fervently licking her feminine bits while I gnaw on a limp celery stalk.  There she is again perched upon the arm of my chair with her Cheshire Cat grin mocking my skinless chicken breasts.  I hear her laughing to herself as I lie in bed at night, my stomach engaging in its own Hunger Games.  I think I even saw her shake her cat hips at me when she caught me naked in the shower.  My next post might include a recipe for Chutney stew....

Ate Skittles...Peed a Rainbow

I think I'm dying whenever I eat anything that contains anise oil.  See anise oil turns everything - I mean everything - a bright Wicked Witch of the West green.   I'm warning you now.  It isn't easy being green!

Master...Ba[k]ing

I've always loved baking - not cooking - baking.  "Cooking" implies slaving over a hot stove while your impatient husband and bevy of children (envision "Children of the Corn") gnash their steely teeth at the formal dining room table (1970s dark, stained oak or maple inclusive of a china cabinet).  I'm not into cooking.  I'm into baking.  Tarts, pies, cakes, cookies, trifles, etc.  Being a diet baker is akin to being a celibate orgy instructor (my dream career).  You just have to dip your hand (or other dangling extremity) in once in awhile.  Today I baked a lattice crust apple pie (I pour cream into the pie the moment I take it out of the oven).  The aroma the baking cocoon of fruitiness created was something I cannot adequately describe.  If there ever was a "sex pie" - this was it.  I ate a piece then smoked a cigarette - it was that good!

Pieces of Me

Sure, I've been MIA for several months now.  I reached my weight goal and completed the OptiFast program.  Yay me!  I've lost the equivalent of two carry-ons and one large garment bag.  I still have lots of emotional baggage, though.  Satan's food beckons to me daily, like some inner city hooker.  You know if you indulge, you're going to regret it (and maybe require a dose of penicillin) after the one brief shining moment of euphoria slinks away in disgust.  Such is the life of a woman who loves food - and most women love food more than sex.  Really - we do.  Nothing against the old bump and grind but food makes us feel - well - loved.  I know, that's fucked up.  But it does.  Warm, gooey cheese, voluptuous mounds of  mashed potatoes, erect Italian bread sticks.  Does the trick every time.