…that I am enjoying all of this healthy, low-carb eating we’ve been doing, I have to confess: sometimes I feel that I am powerless in the presence of a bagel. A number of kind, well-intentioned people have mentioned that they “could never give up rice and pasta,” or that they “tried a low carb diet but couldn’t stick to it.” The thing is, either we stick to our regimen of very low carb consumption and daily exercise, or we get accustomed to giving and receiving injections of insulin. We may have to embrace the needle when we are too decrepit to exercise and burn off sufficient glucose, but for now the diet and exercise method is vastly more appealing.
That being said, sometimes, it’s just a super-colossal drag. I made a beautiful risotto tonight for my parents – creamy rice, shrimp, freshly shelled peas – and I felt guilty about tasting a grain or two of the rice to make sure it was properly cooked. Rob came into the kitchen, looked at it, and said (pathetically) “that’s not for us, is it?”
There is s sameness to our meals; a lean protein, a half a plate of vegetable matter, and a hint of carbs in the form of a fruit or a whole grain. I can arrange these items as meat in a bun with veggies, a meat and vegetable kabob with some brown rice, or even a chicken salad with a piece of melon. Vast numbers of items from my repertoire are gone: casseroles, curries, lasagnas, macaroni and cheese, scalloped potatoes, home baked breads. I have been whining about this in posts for days now, and I’m sure you all wish I would move on, but
I have no trouble with personal discipline, and I will be able to do this for the rest of my life. So will Rob, I’m pretty sure. I have not once, in two months, gotten up in the night and eaten all of the Ritz crackers we have in the house for Sam, or eaten at a restaurant and ordered the fruit salad with a large muffin. If one of us was lactose intolerant, or had celiac disease, or even an ulcer we would have to change our diet, and millions of people do. I just have an unrealistic and somewhat egocentric notion that none of those people loved cooking like I do, and therefore none of them feel the despondency I sometimes feel at 5:00 in the afternoon when I am preparing yet another hunk of marinated meat, a salad, a second vegetable, and a teeny, tiny pile of nourishing whole grains.
My prayer to the universe is this: let me keep finding wonderful things to do with the fresh vegetables of summer, let me find recipes for things Italian, Indian, Chinese and Thai that we can eat, let me survive the Michigan winter when there is nothing fresh and local, and let me stop whining about this and move forward.
But if I find out I have six weeks to live, I’m eating French bread, gelato, pasta and Mike & Ikes all day, every day until I am placed in my chocolate-lined coffin.