Dear Bleaders: I will be switching blogs to www.rosalita55.blogspot.com: in coming weeks, as WordPress is not allowing me to run my own advertising. I will be running parallel sites for a couple of days. Thanks Rosalita
I just finished making, and consuming, my rat’s breakfast.
The rat’s breakfast is a combination of an egg white omelet dressed with an ounce of hard cheddar and a mess of ratatouille, hence its name.
It is a wonderful concoction, filling, tasty and healthful, but it wears thin after being the breakfast staple for more than 30 days.
The rat’s breakfast is my go-to healthy meal. I discovered it when I was on the South Beach Diet a while back and it keeps me full until mid-afternoon — even without a snack.
Today is my first day back on my healthy eating kick after a couple of weeks living as a gourmand and eating everything in sight. My slide began on Thanksgiving with all that rich food combined, always combined, with overindulgence in wine and margaritas.
And now, I am paying for it.
The jeans I bought last fall which were too small are still too small. The black jeans, which are a little larger, just fit.
Even though I put in an hour and a half at the gymnasty nearly every single friggin’ day.
My weight problem is all about what I consume. Doesn’t matter how much I exercise.
But I’ve developed another problem besides poor body image.
I’ve developed a bad gut.
Ever since Thanksgiving, I have had acid reflux, and its partner in crime, chronic indigestion. This condition makes me crave carbohydrates immediately after eating. Which finds me eating sandwiches for breakfast, lunch and dinner — whole wheat, mind you.
The acid reflux is helped by the twelve bottles of Gaviscon in my pantry — what they say is true, by the way, Gaviscon and it is gone.
For a while.
It’s also helped by alcohol, which means I’m in trouble.
A few years back, Marilou Henner wrote a book in which she maintained that people crave all forms of food and drink that give them allergic reactions and the allergic conditions are only calmed by the substances that gave them the problem in the first place.
It’s the hair of the dog theory, and I believe it.
So, sensibly, last week, I started weaning myself off all manner of bad stuff. I had my last sip of agave nectar three days ago, my last Scotch two days ago, and I will have my last libation of grape today. I will shun all manner of wheat products and starches — that means you, you bad bag of potatoes — and I will make pots of Asian soup with vegetables and rice noodles.
Relief, thy name is miso.
If I’m still feeling crappy, I’ll eighty-six the dairy, but I will do that only as a last resort. I will even rid myself of all specks of caffeine.
Then I’ll get out the juicer and boost my liver with some old-fashioned beet, carrot and apple juice.
It’s not a bad way of living, it’s more about replacing things.
I can do that.
Sometimes a girl has no choice.
It’s not about the jeans.
It’s about the stomach lining.
The alternative is hair of GlaxoSmithKline — and my pocketbook just can’t afford it anymore.