Here it is, the place where my two inner selves do battle. The Germaphobe vs. the Chubby Kid. The squeamish fighting the indulgent.
Ground zero: the streets of New York City.
The Battle Royale: Donahue vs. Street Meat.
I have a weakness for New York's various forms of cart food. I walk past the Halal meat guy every night after work, his twinkling lights mesmerizing me as he calls out like an old carnival barker: "Kabob! Kabob! Schwarma!" I watch as tourists in Times Square indulge in dirty water dogs, their indigestion a souvenir they subject themselves to for the "experience." Further on, the guy at the baked potato cart piles pillows of sour cream and mounds of bacon-- street bacon--onto my favorite type of carb. Is there anything better?
"I'm like a salad bar on steroids."
I can usually avoid the pitfalls of these temptations by reminding myself of how germy they must be. I strut past the schwarma guy and think of E-coli, I avoid street bacon by reminding myself it's probably got bird crap somewhere in it. When I really want to be grossed out, I look at the sniffling humanoids picking at the glistening buffalo wings at the local deli buffet. No sneeze guard known to man can protect against the horror of a Times Square lunch hour.
Fuck the Man. Give us your money.
That's all changing now, as more and more haute cuisine carts pop up in New York. I noticed it about four years ago, when I stumbled upon a Mud Truck on St.Mark's place, parked outside of Starbucks. I generally dislike Starbucks because I find it infuriating that they charge so much for coffee, so I headed towards the Mud Truck. The coffee, I should say, was delicious. The Mud Truck describes itself as "anti-establishment coffee," so I was shocked by the sticker price. But still-- it was good, and not Starbucks. Somehow getting ripped off by an independent vendor was more appealing.
Gourmet ice cream, because in SoHo regular ice cream isn't good enough.
Since then, new trucks are seemingly on every street. Forget Sal, the vendor from my where I grew up in Brooklyn, who was rumored to sell you pot if you asked for a pretzel with no salt (I was always to fixated on a Chocolate Eclair ice cream to try him). Now dessert trucks run by famed pastry chefs drive around the city, gourmet ice cream vendors are everywhere, and even tapas trucks roam the streets. They're basically restaurants on wheels. They're chic and cost effective-- they're a culinary craze.
And worse... they're clean. They're retro on the outside and spotless on the inside, breaking down my usual resistance. Suddenly I am defenseless. I walk by and eye them, while the vendors inside call to me, offering me a sample or a free soda with whatever I buy. The mean streets have become a very unsafe place for me.
I am kind of at a loss for how to deal with this development. So for now, I am relying on word association:
Street food= food truck= eating at food truck= body like Martha Dumptruck.
Sorry, Martha, I feel your pain but I want to be a Heather!
Earlier this week I had one of my more ridiculous meltdowns.
First, a little justification. I had been up since 5am when John and I drove home from my brother's place on the Jersey Shore, battled a ridiculous subway commute to work, and then had a harrowing day wherein everyone needed everything now-- kind of par for the course at work except for the 5am thing. I was exhausted after a weekend of travel to DC/Virginia, and worked until 6:45pm (also the norm) before meeting my Beloved.
He had spent the day doing awesome things to make life easier. We had been away all weekend so he braved Costco alone to pick up some giant sized groceries for our tiny fridge. I kind of imagine him strolling through the empty aisles, tasting samples and exchanging pleasantries with the sample-givers, but when I am at work I always think everyone out there is having more fun than me, no matter what they're doing.
I met him after work at an appointment in our neighborhood, and by the time I saw him I looked and felt like a zombie. I asked what he had bought at Costco, and he told me about these fish patties he had gotten. "Like filets?" I asked. "No, you know, breaded fish patties. They're good."
Up yours, Gordan's Fisherman!
I started to cry.
Now, in truth, John had bought all sorts of things. Paper towels, for one, and I know it's strange but I do feel more secure with a closet stocked with paper towels. I think it's the germaphobe in me. He had also gotten chicken, vegetables, gigantic condiments that we were in need of-- you know, the things you get at Costco.
But when I heard fish patties, my inner nutjob railed. "Fish! Dipped in batter! Fried! Then frozen! Like a McFish or whatever they call it! That's like eating a stick of butter!" And it wasn't the fish-- my hungry, overtired brain imagined a refrigerator filled with things I really can't eat.
When we decided to live together, and even before, I often thought that when we struck it rich John and I would have the luxury of separate fridges. His would be stocked with the things I often buy for him because I know he loves them (and, in truth, because I want to eat them and indulge vicariously through him): ready-to-eat pizza, fresh mozzarella wrapped in thinly sliced prosciutto, frozen Buffalo wings, knishes, blocks of various cheeses, bacon, sausages, bottles of hot sauce, multiple pints of ice cream--all Haagen Daz, all full-fat; his cabinets would be bursting with Corn Pops, crusty rolls, Mac and Cheese, and the Costco apple muffins he loves that make up my caloric intake for two days in just one muffin.
Mine would have my standard fare: leaf spinach for salad, apples, pears, baby carrots, hummus for nights I got crazy (and the carrots to eat it with-- you think I could mess with bread? No.), avocado, grilled chicken, frozen shrimp, olive oil and lemon juice for my homemade salad dressing. Dried apricots and almond milk for the nights I really needed dessert.
I must think at least once a day about how I envy John and his casual approach to eating. If he wants it, he eats it, and he is still fit and trim. I've even gone so far as to keep a Facebook album of his more jealousy-inducing meals. If he feels like he's not in his best shape, he works out for a week and is back to exactly where he wants to be. Last week, I counted my calories with meticulous precision, worked out nearly every day-- hard-- and then indulged in ice cream one night. I gained 2+ pounds at my Weight Watchers weigh in.
He, rightfully so, thinks I am a bit insane. I mean, I wept over fish. He doesn't see a freezer full of fish cakes as a slow death march back to my highest weight--the Number That Cannot Be Named-- he sees them as dinner. Sometimes lunch. But he's never been a fat kid. In fact, though I've never confirmed it, I suspect he was the kid who made fun of the fat kids. I mean, he was the kid who made fun of everyone, he grew up to be a comic-- that's what they do. I often look at his cute little first-grader face framed on our wall and think, "Oh, he is so painfully adorable-- all red hair and sweetness. I wish I knew him then." Then I realize that if we had met, perhaps in our preteen years, his wicked humor would have made me, my humongous Miami Mice t-shirt, overbite and zaftig physique an easy target. And I would still be resentful.
When I go grocery shopping alone, my cart is divided into two parts: the food I want to eat, which goes to John. Then there's the food I do eat. It's still delicious, but it's fuel, meant to keep me from collapsing, not induce a cathartic experience. My cart is both aspirational and practical.
As kooky as I am, I have finally found the person who-- while he doesn't quite get my insanity-- accepts it. When we got home that night, he dropped my crazy, crying, spinning self off and went out to the fruit stand to get me some apples to shut me up. When I got upstairs, I saw through my ridiculous tears that he had cut the nutritional information off of the box of fish so that I could figure out how many Weight Watchers PointsPlus were in it. Through my sobs I whipped out my calculator, which I always keep on hand.
They were low fat, high protein and high fiber. Turns out that of the two of us, me and the fish, the only remotely unhealthy thing in that room was me. If insanity did burn calories, I would have had ice cream with mine.
Yesterday was Ash Wednesday, and my Facebook feed read like a live-action roll call for the Catholics in my life. The topic was, of course, what to give up for Lent.
While many used the occasion to sign off of Facebook, swearing 40 days of social network exile, I found with some degree of predictability that the most common Lenten observances seemed to pull double duty as diet measures.
"Giving up sweets for Lent!"
"No more bread 'til Easter!"
"Gym everyday and NO dessert!"
With each post I realized: I am a bad Catholic AND a bad dieter.
I don't think it's a stretch to say that for many of us, Lent is less about Jesus' isolation in the desert, about sacrificing and offering it up for the souls in purgatory, and more about shedding excess winter weight before putting on our decidedly less bulky and forgiving spring clothes. Well, maybe I should just speak for myself. For years, mostly when I was at my heaviest, I would give up chocolate or dessert, imagining that 40 days sweet-free would be the kick start I needed to finally lose weight, catapulting me into a slinky dress in time for Easter. Who wears slinky dresses on Easter, you ask? Those who have perfectly observed their no-sugar rule and earned the body for it, I say.
Can you tell I've starved myself for 40 days?
I can't recall if I ever actually made it through a season of Lent without messing up. It wasn't that I'd cave-- I generally have good will power when I try-- but I'd forget, my dessert ritual being such a devoted ceremony. I'd be scraping at the bottom of the bowl of ice cream before I remembered my promise, and with some degree of resignation I'd think, "Well, there's always next year."
This year, like the last few years, I am not giving up anything. For me, making Lent a part of my diet plan seems disingenuous. Not that I judge others who do it-- but for me it would be less about God and more about losing the ten pounds that are currently making me a mental case.
And, let me be honest...I have given up a lot in the past few years, including: alcohol, buffalo wings, diet coke, credit cards... did I say alcohol? The choices are getting slim.
So, I am attempting to do a good deed every day. Today, my plan was to give up a seat to an old lady on the train. Because neither of us had a seat, I had to first attempt to get one and then give it to her. Of course, when a seat opened up, she beat me to it, and my plan was foiled.
It seems serendipitous to start my new blog off on this day, the high holiday of chubbiness, Fat Tuesday. It's a day that is tailor-made to my true nature: I am an indulgent creature, knowing moderation in no thing. I've wracked up insane debts (and have since paid them off), grown to immense proportions (and have since whittled down), and spent the ages from 13-30 drinking like a longshoreman (and have since pledged my abstinence).
It's the day before Ash Wednesday, when the fasting of Lent begins. Traditionally, we're supposed to rid our homes of fatty foods, eat them while we can-- enjoy, live it up, because tomorrow we'll start 40 days of wandering through the deserts of our deprivations.
To celebrate the day of indulgence, I treated myself like a queen, Molly Bloom rolling around on her duvet, chin soaked with butter and crumbs from her biscuit clinging to her sheets.
I did: I actually allowed myself to eat a Weight Watchers 2 Points Plus bar.
Did you think I'd actually eat something delicious? Did you think I'd head down to the cafeteria at work, mindlessly pick up some of the King Cake they were serving especially for the occasion, and have one last fling at the stir-fry station? Oh, you don't know me. We must not have met.
Nope, not me. For me, Fat Tuesday was very fat indeed. It was the day I weighed in at Weight Watchers with a whopping 2.8lb gain-- undoing the hard work of the three weeks preceding it. It was the day I swore revenge on the Sinister Scale, the evil entity that had ignored the runs I had gone on, the workouts I had endured, the sweets I politely declined for the past seven days. Fat Tuesday was the day I wandered into the cafeteria to get ice water to enjoy with my home-packed, calorie-counted salad lunch, only to see the King Cake on display and be brought back to my days in the dark basement of Camalier Hall, smoking weed with my friend from New Orleans. Her mother sent her a King Cake every year at the start of Mardi Gras, as was the tradition, and in a pot-fuzzy haze we'd eat piece after piece until we found the plastic baby buried inside its sugary tomb. Whoever found the baby was lucky, they said. I really just wanted the cake.
This year, as I steeled myself against the onslaught of Fat Tuesday festivities, I thought about how Fat Tuesday embodied everything I was-- hedonistic, indulgent, uncaring, uncontrollable. And here I am, this year, like the six years preceding it that have followed my radical weight loss, wondering-- how did I end up this completely different person?
I can't shake it: yes, I'd like a Hurricane. I'd like crepes, I'd like buttery cake, sure-- I wanted to eat my way through Fat Tuesday. But instead, I counted my Points for my homemade salad and wondered if I should count my grilled shrimp as 3 PointsPlus or 4. In the end, I counted 4. There's one thing that hasn't changed, I still always go for more.
I have a weakness for New York's various forms of cart food. I walk past the Halal meat guy every night after work, his twinkling lights mesmerizing me as he calls out like an old carnival barker: "Kabob! Kabob! Schwarma!" I watch as tourists in Times Square indulge in dirty water dogs, their indigestion a souvenir they subject themselves to for the "experience." Further on, the guy at the baked potato cart piles pillows of sour cream and mounds of bacon-- street bacon--onto my favorite type of carb. Is there anything better?
