It's Been Months

There was Christmas. Cheating. Bronchitis. Varied bowel disasters (Magnesium!) and pleasant surprises (no consequences after a Chick Fil-A breakfast biscuit). Disheartening trial and error baking errors. Marvelously beautiful life distractions. And now I'm going to make myself some bread.



New tack:
Fuck the wacky specifics from Wangen's blood work. I'm eating pineapple and garlic and asparagus and tomatoes.
Gluten, sugar, processed foods, yeast, dairy that isn't from goats - all still clearly not the best idea, and therefore out with exception of celebratory cheating.

I just needed a break

Turns out my post of despair was the 50th post on this blog. Perfectly reasonable to think a girl would require a break and a change of focus after 50 diet-dedicated meditations.

Nine days of diet without conviction (and a reinvigorated job, and the creation of a band - The Stickers - and some serious good times rolling) later, I'm cooking and excited about it, so it's back to the Lactator.

Almost 2 months, and I've had enough

I cheated on Saturday and ate eggs and french toast. And somehow had the best gut day I've had in months! No nasty symptoms, all party fun times at the garage rock fest in Portland. And more energy from food than I've felt since starting this thing. Thursday's the official 8-week ending, and I'll be damned if the fucking fasting will suddenly start feeling beneficial between now and then.

Perhaps the prescription for wellness is just PARTY.

Celebratory cheating, take 1

It was a birthday party. At a magnificent Italian restaurant (Via Tribunali, in Capitol Hill). And I made it through the meal itself without a single unsafe bite. I ate lovely olives, a green salad with sliced olives and shaved ham, lightly dressed, and prosciutto e melone (a personal favorite; and yes, there HAD to be garlic in the olives' past...and maybe balsamic vinegar, derived from illegal grapes, in the light dressing). And treated myself to a weak scotch and soda to salute the birthday boy (man - 30). All was well and joyful.

His mother made a cake.

Could you imagine a more appropriate first mistress? A layer of chocolate cake with buttercream chocolate frosting. A layer, formed using a Dora the Explorer cake tin, of fluffy yellow cake. Wall-eyes and an excellent air of death. The waitress brought out an enormous kitchen machete.

When it was my turn to slice into the skull, an evil laugh rose up from my belly (MWAh-ha-ha-ha-haaaa) and I knew I'd be choosing not only to touch that cake to my tongue, but to dig in, eat a slice, enjoy both layers, and do so knowing cheating with those particular intentions (joy, friendship, death-awareness, guttural comic desire) couldn't possibly be of harm.