I feel like Pandora’s Box has been opened. What with the great cooking from Miche Genest, the effective grinding of flour reintroducing grain into the diet, and the discovery of my wife’s “freeze-up” stash of birch syrup ice-cream, all on the tails of months of hunger and craving, there is now a flood of dietary temptations to which I am succumbing.
Today is weigh-in day. On the first of the month each household member must step on the scale, the scale of truth, transgressions and temperance. It is a little like the confessional booth, each of us enticed to tell all, once the weight is announced, collectively rejoicing in the euphoria of cleared conscious.
And for the first time since committing to “the diet,” I have added a few pounds to my atrophied skeleton. Of course, this is hardly earth shattering news, so I am not really letting the cat out of the bag about the propensity of dietary grains and sugars to round out one’s figure.
And I could tell, even without the scale of truth, that things were changing. My belt was a little tighter, my skin folds a little thicker, and there was an absence of the constant emptiness. But my cravings are still relentless, well beyond the normal cyclical changes of winter that most of us northerners are familiar with.
All this has me now wondering about rebound. Are these the first days of my new self? Will I keep growing and growing? Should I submit my Christmas clothing wish list now, or would it be best to wait, monitor my growth daily, plot it out so that I could have a more accurate estimation by Christmas Day?
In the meantime, I smell fresh bread, and like a burbot after rotting meat, I am out of here!