The Mommy Diet

I'm back! Did you miss me? I missed me. But I'm back, for real. And, for real, I'm not going anywhere in the foreseeable future.

So I'm back on the treadmill again. The last time I ran was March 1, 2009. (I was pregnant and sick -- don't judge.) And then Miscellany was born, and I ran a few times a month ago, in February. This time around, though, I am committed. And it feels good. I am amazed at the mood stabilizing effects of exercise. There really is something to those endorphin thingies, I guess. After a run, I just feel better -- about everything. I can handle my children. I can handle my life. I actually like my life. And I feel somehow . . . faster. I unload the dishwasher, or fold laundry, or clean the bathroom, and my whole body is awake, present and participating in the activity. I walk taller. I work better. I breathe deeper. And I'm happy.

To capitalize on all this exercise, CPod and I have also been counting calories. Being the nerdy people we are, it goes without saying that we're approaching it scientifically: calculate your basal metabolic rate, decide how much weight you want to lose, factor in exclusively breastfeeding a 4 month old baby and estimate your activity level (how many calories does it burn when I chase GDog around the house trying to enforce a time out?), blah blah blah. Suffice it to say I do not enjoy 120 extra calories of Co'Cola unless I've done one thing or another to earn them. To that end, I record everything I eat, as does CPod, and I have noticed certain . . . disparities between our lists.

Take, for example, lunch. CPod's list is pretty straightforward:

-onion roll with three slices of ham, mustard, lettuce, NO cheese
-a pear
-10 pringles
-a handful of cocoa roast almonds
-water, water, and water.

My food list for the day is slightly more complicated:
-3 pringles (I assume, when you add up the surface area of all 17 crumbs I managed to grab)
-the peanut butter left on the knife after I made three other sandwiches
-1/4 of a pear, plus 2/3 of 1/4, plus 1/2 of 1/4, plus 1/3 of 1/4 (even for a math nerd, that's more computation than I want to do just to record my calories)
-6 almonds
-2 animal crackers
-half of a juice box (also leftover)
-1/2 serving of pineapple in lime jello (the rest thrown back in the refrigerator so I can eat it after refereeing a squabble between the twins)
-one slice of ham, as I put away what CPod left out when he made his lunch (because he thought I would use the same ingredients to make mine)

I think I spend more calories recording the food I eat than I actually consume. I mean, surely the 35 calories worth of animal crackers are burned as I fend off the interlopers who try to take over the computer and play pinball every single time I sit down to add another food to the list! Don't they cancel each other out?

Do I have to count the seven goldfish in a little baggie I found when I was cleaning out the car? How about the one peanut butter cracker left in the pack in ConMan's preschool snack? Or the chocolate covered raisins I found inside MayDay's stacking cups?

The Mommy Diet? How about the Homeless Foragers diet? The Cinderella's Mice diet? The One-Sixteenth Portion Diet? Whatever it's called, I can't believe the weight isn't just falling off of my bootylisciousness.

Oh, wait. There are some things I consume in whole portions. Blue Bell Almond & Pistachio ice cream, with a light drizzle of Hershey's syrup? That, I savor slowly, after my children sleep, whilst enjoying a book, a blog, a brief conversation with beloved husband, a bad singer on American Idol.

Dinner with my girlfriends? I can finish off three days worth of leftover calories in one fell swoop: spinach salad with gorgonzola, applewood smoked bacon, craisins, sugared pecans, and mustard-honey emulsion; or New York-style pizza with fresh basil and house-made mozzarella; or the best fried shrimp ever with cole slaw and roasted sweet potatoes, topped off with warm chocolate chip bread pudding doused in pure, unwhipped, unadulterated cream.

Have I said before that I love food? I do. Truly. Sometimes I think I do all this calorie counting and exercising just to keep myself from getting fatter. The thing is, I'm totally okay with that. I run, and it feels good. I eat, and it feels good, too. And this body? It's not half bad. I think I'll keep it.

Confessions of a Food Snob

When I was in the eighth grade, we had a writing assignment in English class: describe, in detail, the MOST PERFECT MEAL. I still remember mine. While my classmates' menus included things like hotdogs and popcorn and food you buy at a ball park, mine included things like spanakopita and shrimp scampi. My mom, who has always been my best editor, read the essay and just shook her head. Where did this kid come from? When it comes to my food choices, she's still shaking her head.

Consider my culinary roots. My dad attends the ACC basketball tournament nearly every year. He doesn't miss a game, at least until his beloved UNC Tarheels are eliminated from the competition, at which point he sells the rest of his tickets and heads back home. Best case scenario: Carolina takes the whole thing and Dad gets to enjoy a solid four days of non-stop basketball. This past spring, I asked him in passing about his attendance at the event.

"So, Dad, do you just eat hot dogs all day long?"

"Oh, no, they have nachos, too."

He was serious. For four days (well, three . . . they didn't win) he ate nothing but Georgia Dome concession stand food. Willingly. Now. The man makes some mean cornbread, and my husband only aspires to make breakfast the way my dad does. But still. Nachos?

My mom dislikes cooking. She loves being in the kitchen, because that's where everyone usually congregates in her house, but for her, cooking is a little like cleaning the bathroom: sure, it's nice when it's done, but who enjoys the process?

Growing up, we ate well, and consumed lots of things fresh from our garden, but my most vivid gustatory memories take me back to the respective kitchens of my two extraordinary grandmothers. I hope to inherit from my mother THE POT that my Grandma Clare used to make a pot roast. I can nearly duplicate it in my Le Creuset dutch oven . . . but only nearly.

I wish I had inherited Grandma Stella's flour board. She made biscuits at least once a day, and never measured an ingredient. The board stayed on the counter, full of flour, covered by a dish towel. To make biscuits, she brought it to the table, scooped some lard with her fingers, poured in some buttermilk, and mixed it by hand. And by hand, I mean, without a spoon. Then she shaped the biscuits, pinching off just the right amount from the large ball of dough, and baked them in her wood stove. I can smell them right now.

We spent this past New Year's Eve at my sister MommyJ's house with most of the extended family. We all brought lots of delicious things to share, and my mom, at the request of Little Brother, brought pigs-in-a-blanket. If you're unfamiliar with this delicacy, they're pretty basic: wrap Lil' Smokie sausages in crescent roll dough. Bake. Eat.

Except I didn't eat. Because there were MUCH more delicious things to choose from: mushrooms stuffed with bacon, cheddar, parsley, and chives, anyone? Spinach dip? Boursin, and brie, and gouda, with gourmet crackers? My brother gave me grief for turning my nose up at ordinary food. I told him I simply chose to spend my calories in more delicious ways.

I do not deny it: I am an unapologetic food snob. I read Bon Appetit and Cook's Illustrated religiously and regularly try new recipes from both. I find myself wanting to take Julia Child's The Art of French Cooking and just work my way through the whole book from start to finish. I consult The Joy of Cooking more regularly than I check the dictionary.

When I have an extra dollar to spend, I head to our local gourmet grocery store -- not your ordinary earth-nuggetty hang-out specializing in all things organic or natural. This place only specializes in one thing: Food that Tastes Good. I push my cart and meander through the store, taking in the visual feast of the produce aisle, selecting some strawberries, endive, or Brussels sprouts still on the plant; I stop by the deli and window-shop, wishing I could justify spending $20/pound on prosciutto, but settle for their house brand honey roasted turkey; I linger at the cheese case and agonize over the choices of Gruyere and Brie, Tillamook cheddar and chevre and mascarpone.

The store is not large, but they stock an array of choices for the discerning palate. My brother served his mission in Germany, and he gets mustard and sauerkraut there. I buy salad dressing and arborio rice in bulk and vanilla almond granola and Martinelli's sparkling apple cider and sea-salted dark chocolate caramels. And I love every espresso-scented minute I spend there.

Yes, I love food. And while there are certain packaged staples that I rely on (Kraft Mac & Cheese, but please don't tell anyone), and a few treats I like to sneak when no one is looking (peanut M&Ms, Pepperidge Farm Chesapeake cookies, Minute Maid triangle popsicles, chocolate milk made with Quik powder), I hold myself to the ultimate standard: deliciousness. And, my, oh, my, how we are enjoying the culinary journey around our kitchen, across the farmstands, and through the restaurants of our little corner of the world.

(Another entry for the Scribbit Write-Away contest here, folks. You should try it, too!)