Here’s the Skinny
Eating is my best thing. I love to eat. When happy, I eat to celebrate. When sad, I eat to cheer. When one of my young ‘uns is down in the dumps my first suggestion after a big hug and smoochie is, “How about a snack?” The concept of food as utilitarian just doesn’t compute with me. (Which may explain my developing muffin-top.)
My love affair with food has been ongoing from an early age. I epitomize the old joke, “Call her anything but late-for-dinner.” Trust me. This mama does not miss a meal. I’m fortunate to have inherited a genetic metabolism that allows me to nosh pretty much unimpeded, although the closer I get to the big 5-0 the more I can feel myself morphing from “skinny genes” to “chubby jeans”—IF ya know what I mean.
When I opted for Weight Watchers’ points counting several years ago I found it to be easy to follow and sensible, and I did drop weight. Then my father-in-law moved in and offered to do all the cooking. He’s been with us for six years and I’ve gained one pound for every one of them. He’s a dynamite chef, but the terms “fat-free” and “low-cal” never cross his mind. When we asked for steamed veggies instead of sautéed his reaction was a blank stare. He likens steamed vegetables to wet cardboard. To PaPa, a veggie isn’t worth eating if it hasn’t been sautéed in butter and seasoned with everything from brown sugar to pine nuts. Yes, his veggies are worthy of second and third helpings. They are also part of the reason my jeans are too snug.
So what is an ageing eater to do?
There are a lot of theories out there, and I’ve read about them all. I like the one that recommends meditation to determine the best plan of action. Meditating sounds like it could really center my chi and allow my mind to open up to the possibilities. Possibly I could include a bag of peanut M&Ms, because chocolate is a calming substance in many cultures.
I’ll let you know how it works out.
Til next time,