Yesterday began ominously. I have been roasting chickens for a good many years now, and I have never lost one to the garbage pail. I learned to cook from Julia's Mastering the Art of French Cooking, volumes I and II. I feel safe calling her by her first name because first of all she's dead, and second of all, I have been cooking these chickens since I was sixteen, fifty three years ago, though of course not the same chickens. Anyway, The French insist, against all evidence, that a roast chicken is the epitome of French cuisine, and one cannot say one cooks until one can turn out a proper roast chicken, which I can do, and have done many times. Until yesterday. This was a young, fresh hen, plump and unsullied, but that was not what came out of the oven. What came out was slick, footballish in firmness and color, and unyielding to fork or carving knife. Then some juices shot out and burned me on the hand. I could not have been more shocked had the hen popped out of my oven and pecked me on the nose.
End result, after taking a small taste: the garbage can. Very disorienting.
The next disorienting event was finishing J.J. Virgin's The Virgin Diet and realizing that I was not a woman up to the job when it came to following her anti-inflammatory three week detox plan that requires even more self discipline, not to mention memory than I have, and believe me, I have quite a bit. No gluten, dairy, (what? No cheese? As Julia would say, "Impossible!" Say that with a trilling French accent and you'll have the idea,) no corn, and no practically everything else. I don't doubt J.J. has a valid point. ( I feel like I'm on a first name basis with her, too, especially after reading her chapters on "poops.") I lost more weight (in addition to the 50 pounds more or less than I have already lost in the previous five months,) my ankles deflated dramatically, and I practically sprinted out the door to my morning walk. Nothing but fresh fruits and veggies crossed my lips the rest of the day, except for that small sliver of heinous roast chicken.
Somehow, when exclusively on Weight Watchers, I didn't feel deprived, but as I read J.J., I felt deprived. Deprived but sad. Healthier, less puffy, but definitely sadder. J.J. will remain with me, because I buy her spiel. I am a true believer that foods are the path to health, clear headedness, energy, better eyesight, and really good skin after fifty(as long as you don't smoke or sunbathe.) I want that! And to be thin, too, but with some cheese. But I'll happily trade for sometimes foggy, now and then puffy, and eating more than three forkfulls of my birthday cake. No contest.
So last night, I dreamed that my husband was looking for a decent pair of scissors. That is surely symbolic of something or other, wouldn't you say?When I got home from grocery shopping today, I took a short nap and woke up starved for my favorite: chunky peanut butter and orange marmalade on rye bread (all three big no-no's from J.J.) and I got right up, made one and ate it, and I am glad about it, too.
And Zan Marie - Love your remodeled kitchen. Mine no longer has my husband's feet protruding through the ceiling and thanks to my darling daughter who has wizard like capabilities with drywall, (a skill no woman should be without,) the ceiling and pot lights look just fine. See my Facebook page.
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