The problem is everything tastes better deep fried and covered in ranch dressing
After we got home from the coast last week, I started digging through old pictures trying desperately to find a picture of myself in the orange cover up. My efforts were in vain. Apparently, no such picture exists, which saddens me to no end seeing as how it transformed me into the most beautiful girl a few 12 year olds had ever seen.
In the midst of my search, I found pictures that we took on our honeymoon. There was one in particular that I vividly remember taking because I thought we might use it for our Christmas card picture that year, but when I got it back from the film developer (because we have been married since before the dawn of digital cameras and we didn’t even own a computer until after we got married, and then it was only to check the email, because the internet was just a passing trend, like the automobile and sliced bread) I decided I didn’t want to send out a picture that featured me in a swimsuit, even though I was wearing a sarong with it. And as I looked at that picture, I realized, in retrospect, I was a 26-year-old idiot. I should have blown that picture up to 16 x 20 and sent it to everyone we knew. It would have been worth the extra postage.
Ahhh youth and flat abs. Wasted on the young.
P and I got married in August of 1997. In December of that year, he got a really bad sinus infection and had to go to the doctor. When the nurse weighed him, she announced that he weighed 185 pounds. He told her the scale must be broken because he had weighed 155 pounds since high school.
Her scale was working just fine.
He had put on 30 pounds in 3 months, granted he’s 6 feet tall, the extra weight looked good on him and I was relieved that he was safely at a weight that would ensure I couldn’t fit in his jeans. I’d like to attribute the weight gain to all my homecooking but, truth be told, it was a combination of homecooked meals and a lifestyle that no longer included pickup football games at every given opportunity.
Anyway, this weekend I announced I was going to start cooking healthier foods, and asked P if he would be on board while I try new, healthy recipes. It’s not so much that we really need to lose weight as it is that we’re heading to the far side of our 30’s and probably need to think about things like cholesterol, heart disease, AARP membership, and Metamucil. And as I write that last sentence, I must confess it doesn’t really convey my true motives. I’d take a cholesterol of 350 if it means I can look good in my jeans.
Because I’m sure any leading cardiologist will tell you that cholesterol and blood pressure are a moot point and what’s more important is what’s on the outside.
So, when I made my announcement armed with the July issue of Cooking Light magazine, P asked, “What’s the point? We’re never going to look like we did in those honeymoon pictures.” And with that statement, Mr. Optimism threw down the gauntlet. Speak for yourself, Sunshine. I am going to achieve post-matrimony fitness and muscle tone, just as soon as I finish this last brownie.
I mean, who cares that all I had to do back then was let my 26-year-old metabolism do its thing, while periodically throwing in a few lunges for good measure? It’s totally within my grasp, even though I now have a 3 year old who encourages me to eat marshmallows as opposed to working out, and my metabolism is flat broke after 35 years of trying to fight all the fried chicken and Hostess cupcakes it’s had to endure.
Monday night, I made my first Cooking Light meal. It was some kind of pasta thing with cherry tomatoes, pine nuts and bread crumbs. I was a little worried that P might not like the fact it didn’t contain any meat, but it sounded good, so I made it. I told P dinner was ready and he began serving himself from the large bowl of whole wheat pasta. He was heaping big spoonfuls on his plate and I was so pleased to see his enthusiasm. Finally, he looked at me and said, “Isn’t there any chicken or something in here?”
No, honey. Just satisfying and filling cherry tomatoes sauteed in 1/4 teaspoon of olive oil with some garlic powder.
DEEE-LICIOUS.
And truthfully, the flavor was good, although the whole dish was a little dry. And saying it was a little dry is akin to saying a rainforest is a little damp. It seemed like it needed more oil or cream cheese or something. But I guess that would defeat the purpose, wouldn’t it?
Then, last night I whipped up yet another healthy recipe from Cooking Light that involved chicken, sundried tomatoes, asiago cheese and, most importantly, pita bread. Anything served in a pita is automatically healthy because, come on, it’s a pita. It’s the food of vegans and Greeks. How can it not be healthy?
Well, except for those frozen pita pockets filled with ham and processed cheese. Those imposters give pitas everywhere a bad name.
I was beyond impressed with myself. The whole thing just looked delicious and it was so easy! In fact, as I made it, I started to take pictures because I just knew I was going to post the recipe on the blog, along with pictures of all the fabulousness. I stuffed a pita for Caroline and served it on a plate with a side of watermelon because FRUIT+PITA=MOTHER OF THE CENTURY. She eyed it suspiciously, took a bite, and let it fall out of her mouth all over the plate next to the watermelon as she said, “THAT IS BISGUSTING.”
So, I tossed the pita over to P so he could try it, while I heated up a hot dog with ketchup for Caroline. He ate the whole thing and I was so proud. I said, “I think it’s really good, what do you think?”. He said, “I can see why you like it because it has a lot of weird flavors, but I don’t really like it.”
Well, fine. You and our child can continue to consume mass quantities of processed foods and Hostess Donettes, but I have had enough. I am going to make the effort to be healthy and have good cholesterol, and blood pressure that would make an 18 year old weep with envy. I am making a conscious choice to make healthy decisions for the sake of the future and, of course, for the sake of my bottom.
It really wants to look as good in a pair of jeans as it did back in 1997.
