Since I'm awake and bored, I decided I would peruse the Internet for Thanksgiving recipes I won't be making. Sometimes, just for kicks, I check out what The Pioneer Woman has been up to, or, in other words, how many pounds of butter she has crammed into otherwise innocent foodstuffs. As I gawked at this mornings obscenity, French Onion Soup Stuffed Mushrooms, I whispered to myself "Good LORD, woman!" and realized that I make this same exact utterance every time I allow my gaze to fall upon her newest incarnation of heart disease. She is a funny woman, and so shameless with her use of dairy. It just makes me want to call out for divine support.
Sometimes, as I revel in my recently recovered ability to eat spinach smoothies and salads dressed with vinaigrette, I find my mind wandering to the women I know, or know of, who have abandoned even the vaguest pretense of restraint in their use of ingredients I only buy once a quarter. People who throw a cup of cream into the recipe, you know, for good measure. People who say, with singularity of purpose, "I just always use butter, because the flavor is so much better!" as though I hadn't realized that butter is generally a tastier addition to a soup than lentils.
I like my virtuous foods, don't get me wrong, and I certainly eat foods that don't boast a disease-preventing nutrient profile, but from time to time, I just wonder how life must be on the other side, the land of no guilt. It's kind of how I felt as I watched, googly-eyed, from the sidelines as my friends in high school and college were getting to know boys in the biblical sense. I knew it wasn't for me, but there was something captivating happening and I knew that, too. Those boys were like a pound of cream cheese; I didn't know what to do with them, but I had to respect the women who did.
It's probably a good thing I still don't know what to do with a pound of cream cheese. I'll take my chances with lentils.