I have been eating a lot. A lot. And it bothers me that I feel guilty because of it.
Bear read a book called Good Calories, Bad Calories not too long ago. And he’s pretty sure that refined carbohydrates will be the death of me. It sounds like kind of a smart book, actually, but I don’t want to read it. Because I like killing myself with muffins. Not killing myself. I like eating muffins.
Bear doesn’t eat any carbs. Neither does my little brother Gabe, who is a diabetic, too, and who interns for Bear now, at Bear’s new job. Gabe comes and stays with us, and he and Bear talk about the world economy (it’s always depressing) and eat salad together. I am learning more about the world economy as a result.
My other brother, the middle one, put himself on a strict diet and workout schedule years ago, when he started college. He lost a lot of weight and gained a lot of muscle and he doesn’t eat any carbs. He also doesn’t drink diet soda, because of the artificial sweetener. He drinks water with lemon juice, which is actually quite good. His willpower is crazy. It’s more like a superpower. It can probably make him fly by now.
Neither of my parents eat carbs. My dad is a diabetic and my mom has cut them out of her diet (though she’ll have a piece of chocolate or a bite of my cake occasionally).
I’ve written about this before, but I need to write about it again, because here I am, in my new apartment, eating carbs all day long, and feeling guilty. And writing about it on a blog called “Eat the Damn Cake.”
DUMBO has the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. It’s right on the waterfront. You stand there, eating your incredibly expensive, incredibly creamy ice cream, and looking at Manhattan, shimmering across the river. It has Jacques Torres– the ice cream place and the chocolate store. In fact, the man himself lives here in DUMBO. I know, because my friend the handyman gets free desserts from him sometimes.
(The Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory. Which one an award for best ice cream in the city. source)
DUMBO is full of interesting muffins. They always have something in the middle. Like rhubarb and necterine. A little gift of fruit at the center of the fluffy wrapping. They taste sort of healthy. I know it’s all lies, but I fall for them every time.
For the past week or so, I have eaten ice cream every day, at least once. The heat seems to demand it. One night, I craved ice cream so badly that, after jogging with Bear, I made him accompany me to the grocery store, where I bought chocolate ice cream and strawberries for a milkshake. When it turned out the ice cream was actually low fat frozen yogurt, I was distraught. Well, slightly less than distraught, but you get the idea.
And then yesterday I went to Four and Twenty Blackbirds, the insane pie place in Gawanus, right on the edge of Park Slope, where a friend initiated me to “salty honey” pie. Which is like the filling from pecan pie. No pecans. Straight up sugar and corn syrup. And it was delicious.
(there it is. In all its glory. source)
And I caught myself making this vow as I stumbled back onto the F train: “I will never eat again.”
My mind started doing this really, really mean thing. It went like this “Look at her, over there, you see her? Do you know why she’s prettier than you? It’s because she’s thinner. That’s why. If you would just have some goddamn self-discipline, you could be ten times better looking.”
I hate it when my mind does that. When it tries to convince me that thinness is the definition of prettiness. That’s just wrong. I hate it when I feel like a failure for eating. Like, “OK, you can do better. Tomorrow no ice cream.” But I LOVED that ice cream…
When my mind gets like this, it always goes to this one scene from my past, where I am on the treadmill, and my personal trainer (from a very, very brief experience using a personal trainer) is saying, “If you want to lose weight, it’s all about eating less. Exercise has nothing to do with it.”
It was before my wedding. And of course, she had assumed that I was there to lose weight, like all brides are supposed to. Why else does a bride go to the gym? Um, to be healthy? I don’t know.
Eat less, my mind whispers. It sounds a little like Voldemort. Eat less…
That was the take home message, apparently.
And here I am, NOT eating less. Eating more. Eating more because it’s summer and because there’s amazing famous ice cream and because I have to eat it with all of my friends, who I am showing around, and because I have to explore all of the restaurants in the area, and because I just WANT to.
There it is. I want to. I enjoy it so much.
My mom said, half jokingly, on the couch after we ate ice cream, “They say ‘nothing tastes better than skinny feels.’”
“That is not at all true!” I said, suddenly impassioned. I can’t remember ever looking in the mirror when I was much thinner and thinking, “God, this is amazing. Forget ever eating pizza again. It’s not worth it.”
But I can perfectly remember biting into a juicy, dripping slice, and feeling like I was in heaven. Amazing. Absolutely perfect.
* * *
Unroast: Today I love the way I look with a buzz cut. Yup. I did that. But I didn’t feel like writing another post about my hair. And it was totally casual, anyway. I just walked into some place called “unisex cuts” or something, in Park Slope, and asked for a buzz cut. And I got one. And I love it. My dad doesn’t know yet. He’s going to flip.
P.S. I just need to share this little story, to get it off my chest: So you guys now know about Grimaldi’s the famous, famous pizza place near my new apartment, that always has this HUGE, insane line? Well, I walked by with my mom and my aunt the other day, and there WAS NO LINE. (“There is no spoon….”) It was a miracle. There were empty tables. It may be the first time this has EVER happened, in the history of Grimaldi’s. It is definitely the last time it will ever happen. So I’m freaking out and jumping up and down and yelling things like, “Pizza! Pizza!” And my mom and aunt go, “We’re full…”
Yes. They turned out their (and my) only shot at Grimaldi’s. At least without waiting three hours on a sidewalk. Just like that. As though it didn’t even matter.
I told Bear when he got home, and he was like, “You didn’t get any to go??!”
Nope. They were out the door and on their way to the Brooklyn Bridge.
And I will never speak to either one of them again.
I’m kidding. I totally will. But it will hurt me to do so.
P.P.S. These photos are for Krystina: