A couple of weeks ago, I found myself sulking outside of a local bakery. This isn’t a gluten-free bakery, but they do make a fantastic gluten-free scone. I arrived too late in the day, and as usual, they were completely sold out. However, my wheat-eating husband bought himself some ridiculous looking apple-stuffed, almond-stuffed, hopes and dreams-stuffed croissant. I was irrationally upset about this situation. I could feel my blood pressure rising as I watched bits of pastry flake off onto his shirt, and tiny bits of apple adhere to his adorable mouth corners. All I wanted was a scone. I briefly considered not eating breakfast at all. How could I? I had been dreaming of that scone for… well, at least the last thirty minutes. I could taste the flaky bits of berry filled dough in my mind. No other breakfast would measure up. I was on a scone only hunger strike. I was quickly becoming an insane person. This happens when hunger sets in. I’m still myself, but the drama is cranked up to eleven, and the tears start to nag at my ducts, begging to be released. It’s as if I’ve melded my physical person with the frenetic emotional instability of Buster Bluth, and the overly emotive face of Oscar The Grouch. If you’re wondering, my husband really loves when this happens (he doesn’t). May I remind you that all of this is happening OVER A SCONE. Ugh. […]
Cinco de Mayo is swiftly approaching.
I’m not Mexican. But, on Cinco de Mayo I get to pretend. I get to high five all the tacos with my face, raise a margarita or two to my mouth hole, and worship all things guacamole. This is special for me. But, almost any excuse to put guacamole or carne asada in my face is special for me. Do we need an excuse? I’m not sure we do. I suppose I could live every day as if it were the fifth of May. Minus the kitschy sombrero wearing and the early afternoon margarita. Yes, every day could be the fifth of May. Therefore every day could be special. Did I just discover the meaning of life? Don’t answer that. […]
A couple weekends back, I found myself crying in a farmers market.
This isn’t typical farmers market behavior. Usually it’s a sunhat wearing, hip checking a vegan to get the best bunches of kale, haggling over baskets of warm strawberries type of situation. But, I haven’t been having a typical week, or month, or year. I used to go to our local farmers market regularly on Sundays. We’d meet up with friends. We’d eat gluten-free crepes, and sweat profusely in the sunshine as we listened to some dude play a sitar. But, in recent months I haven’t been going. My body has been tired, and my mind even more so. My health will ebb and flow along with my Lyme treatment. Unfortunately, it often gets worse before it gets better. I get trapped in days or weeks or months of feeling like I’m walking through a thick sludge. Exhaustion will creep in and feel debilitating. My normal vivacious self just sits at a hum under a heavy blanket of fatigue. It’s disorienting and frustrating and a breeding ground for anxiety. I stopped doing things that I love to do. Driving became difficult if not impossible. Flowing through a yoga class made me feel like I was suffocating. I’d stare at the door the whole class as if it was the only thing between me and freedom. Walking around the neighborhood I’d feel my heart pounding — my mind racing, telling me that I was too tired, that I wasn’t safe. So, those rows of vendors at our farmers market, selling produce and honey and fancy pickles didn’t feel the same as they did a couple summers ago. Everything was difficult now. Simple every day things become big things. Huge things. Mountains. […]
Five things I know to be true:
1) Fruit gets a little bit more awesome when you shove it into the oven and let it get all sweaty and juicy.
2) The above sentence sounds about a billion times more sexual than intended (even though I totally didn’t say moist, so you’re welcome).
3) Asparagus is so delicious, that I don’t care if it makes my urine smell like actual cat food. It’s par for the course.
4) Roasting veggies with fruit, in a bath of oil and balsamic vinegar, and then hitting them with some steak seasoning is a total culinary panty dropper.
5) The above sentence sounds only marginally worse than I intended. But, as with the feline food-urine… it’s just par for the course in these parts. #BloggingIsWeird #Sorry […]