Tag Archives: food

“Health”: This Is Why You’re Fat

Here’s my list of reasons, ranging from ‘The Truth’ to ‘Biatch, Please’:

-Seven months of sitting around with a broken/healing/cyber arm. The daily effort of being positive about that arm has been my undoing. Add boredom and loneliness to that effort and you have a formulaic cheeseburger ripe for overeating.

-I’m cleared for physical therapy, but not heavy exercise. The doc said I could walk or use a stationary bike, but what is that even? A bike that goes nowhere? And walking is a young person’s game, everyone knows that. I dream of being in a pool, but visualize a frog with one leg cut off swimming in tiny, ineffective circles while his asshole frog friends laugh at him in his ill-fitting bathing suit. Nope — not projecting at all.

-Grimm, and other one-word TV shows like Revenge! Deception! Scandal! Homeland! Castle! Smash! Vikings! Nashville! And my favorite, Californication! All that fornicating (and the intensely good writing) felt like six seasons of exercise to me. It’s embarrassing how much TV I watched in the past seven months, but also a little bit thrilling to feel like A Real American from Mississippi.

-Fast food and a gaping maw. The most gapingest of maws, really. Pretty sure fast food gives you cancer, if not physically, then morally. Great, now I have moral food cancer.

-Feelings: OM NOM-inally delicious! So many feelings, so little time to eat them. Hey wait, all I have is time. I’ll bet feelings go great with chocolate sauce and pork belly sandwiches.

-The internet. More specifically, This Is Why You’re Fat (dot com!), which is like a dating site for overweight carbs looking to meet bad news carbs from the wrong side of the tracks. And much like The Smoking Man from X-Files always made me want to smoke, This Is Why You’re Fat inspires me to eat terrible food wrapped in terrible food, rolled in bacon and covered in donuts.

-Everything that’s awful for me tastes fucking rad (see above). Better Cheddars and fried chicken? My affinity for them knows no diabetic bounds.

Habits, laziness. All my habits and laziness lead to Rome. And Rome burned, so there’s something to think about.

I’m 37 now. Leave me alone so I can slide into my blobby-ass forties with dignity, asshole.


Reasons, man. It always comes down to reasons. And who cares what they are, as long as you get over them?

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When Walrus Met Carpenter

Fluffiest, cheesiest, winningest polenta

It’s not rocket science. It’s polenta, goat cheese, basil, and tomatoes. Total no-brainer; of course these things go together. Of course they do. And yet somehow I’d never experienced this combination before. The polenta was light and fluffy; the cheese dense but forgiving. The tomatoes burst with acidic flavor, a melty pot of tangy sweet and my grandmother’s garden.

At The Walrus & The Carpenter, they serve nice little meals. They offer drinks that have exotic, unrecognizable booze in them. They serve Coho salmon and in-house smoked trout. They prepare interesting oysters at a bar that looks like Nantucket-Northwest chic, minus the actual chic. It’s simple, and I loved the chandelier.

Plus the rock star reviews.

But I married that polenta, forever and for always. I committed my foreseeable future to that reasonably-priced vegetarian dish. And that’s saying something since I’ll eat anything with a nervous system or a smile.

The second time I visited The Walrus & The Carpenter, with my esteemed food partner, Fox, I was determined to reunite with my polenta domestic partner. But like so many new restaurants these days, the menu had changed, as it often does daily. That allows for greater flexibility in the kitchen, plus fresher fish and ingredients, but I was slightly disappointed…for about two seconds. The new menu was equally intriguing, i.e.; FRIED BRUSSELS SPROUTS.

I wouldn’t classify myself as a ‘Brussel sprouts’ person, but ‘Fried’ is the spirit name of my old, fatty heart — so when I saw them on the menu, my first fleeting thought was ‘Oh! A fried something-or-other!’ I can’t remember what else was on the sprouts besides salt (butter? olive oil?), but I swear on a stack of Martha’s special issue magazines that I liked them more than french fries. MORE THAN FRENCH FRIES. Why aren’t we introducing our children to this phenomenon? If they had some of these, they might be willing to try other veggies.

Then again, I felt like I’d somehow earned that bowl of Brussels sprouts, like they were my reward for eating the grody un-fun ones when I was a defiant little girl-eater. If you visit, and the restaurant has them, demand an order or five.

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