Sigh... I was reading a piece in the New York Times about a bakery in Brooklyn started by one lone girl as her own operation. Hires a baker, a year later girl marries her baker. Makes lovely cookies. The world is her oyster cracker... And suddenly I wished I was her. That's a regular fantasy for me: I sell my lovingly handmade food (which at various times I've visualized as soup, bbq, cupcakes, and even oatmeal. Yes, oatmeal. I make a killer oatmeal. Honest.) and then the world falls in love with me. All the self esteem and love I feel I've been missing in my life is, voila, mine. People will adore me, praise me, write about me in the New York Times. Martha Stewart will call, and I will be complete... Visions of sugarplums, my ass!
And I wonder how I got to 300 pounds!!! I invest foods with magical powers. I wonder if drunks dream of owning their own bars?
I'm going to have to be satisfied with roasting a turkey and making a good and fairly healthy steamed carrot pudding for Christmas dessert. Tomorrow, I am going to try to have a good Christmas Day without food as the sole focus, unlike so many years in the past.
The food has been settling down since I got back from Toronto. This morning I asked Fuzzboy to put some chocolates he had been given in a place where I wouldn't see them. I felt strange about asking him to do it, but he was really fine with it, and immediately I felt more peaceful about the food and paradoxically, stronger by admitting I was feeling weak.
Happy Christmas.
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