My husband loves to cook. Yeah, yeah, I know… I’m sooooo lucky! He is also naturally lean and loves decadent, calorie laden foods.
It’s actually a little annoying. If he decides to lose 10 pounds, it happens in the span of a week. I don’t mean to pick on him, he does work out. He just has that type of constitution.
I do not.
You’re beginning to see my problem.
There are those of us in the world that must pay extra careful attention to every last calorie that goes into the “temple”. Although sometimes we think of it as a prison, particularly when it comes to pasta with cream sauce and charcuterie. Oh yes, and let’s not forget the gorgeous glass (or two!) of Amarone that inevitably accompanies it.
Don’t mistake my intentions on choosing clean, healthy food. I choose to eat as I do for the good of my health, as well as setting a good example for my children and the hope for their healthy futures.
And so we eat chicken, colorful vegetables and limit our intake of starchy foods like rice and white potatoes. That’s not the problem.
My problem is the daily conversation that goes a little like this…
“Do you want me to pick up dinner?” I text, not so innocently, knowing that grocery shopping comes second only to cooking, to my husband’s idea of ways to unwind after work.
“No that’s okay. You can just grab the staples.” By which he means toilet paper, comet, milk and kitty litter.
“Okay, so what were you thinking then?” Again, I ask the leading question.
“Braised lamb shanks with mashed potatoes and prosciutto wrapped asparagus. Maybe some of those cheese biscuits. Sound good?” Um yeah, it does actually, but it’s Tuesday FFS.
“Um, yeah it does actually. But it’s Tuesday FFS!” Internal editor not working so well.
“So that’s a no?” I can practically hear his stomach growling through the phone.
“How about grilled chicken? Some steamed broccoli? Baked sweet potatoes?” I cross my fingers.
“Geez, Stace! Do you ever get sick of chicken?” I know that even though he complains, he sees the wisdom in the suggestion.
And so as we sit at the dinner table that Tuesday evening and he slathers butter (real butter, not that fake stuff in the tub) and armloads of salt onto his baked sweet potato, he challenges me with a sidelong glance. I smile and bite my tongue. He can afford the extra calories.
Not all of us are so lucky.
I rant about a wide variety of topics over at www.staciacarlton.com
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