Sublimating Discontent

There’s just nothing like a laugh (especially the laugh of identification) to lift a person’s spirits. My day started with a postcard blue sky and snowy mountains. That was good. But then… checking my email, I read “Poem of the Day: Super Bowl” written by poet Mary Ruefle and posted in the February fifth Writers Almanac. The first lines of the poem spoke to me, and if I would have had Ruefle’s phone number, I would have called her then and there.

“Who won? I said.        “The game’s tomorrow,” he said.

How I love these lines! I am not alone! It is so nice to have a sister-in-arms!

Super Bowl parties are tough. The diehard football fans cluster around the TVs, and the hangers-on (mostly but not exclusively women) sit on the sidelines eyeing the banquet table spread. The food is to die for, but if I’ll have to fight the temptation to taste, I’ll probably have to drink to forget. (Which reminds me to check the number of calories in a glass of wine before we leave home. Which has fewer calories? Red or white?

As if cold weather and a blizzard of reactionary, political pronouncements aren’t enough to bring a girl down, my diet casts a cloud over February.

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In an attempt to get a handle on our weight and cholesterol, my husband and I have trimmed our sails. No more ice cream, no more snacking, no more second-helpings, and no more of those heart-unfriendly (but oh so emotionally warming) breakfasts of biscuits and gravy.

dscn3983Our dietary regimen calls for having coffee (cup after cup) for breakfast. We eat enhanced oatmeal for lunch: oats, two tablespoons of flax seed, almond milk, fruit, yogurt and a healthy handful of walnuts. Sometimes I add cinnamon, and if I’m in crisis mode, I’ll add  a wholesome tablespoon of organic maple syrup tapped from a stalwart maple tree by loving hands. (Thereby adding a smidgen of emotional warming.)

Dinner is just dinner with portion control in mind. Our diet feels Lenten. Lenten without a call for spiritual reflection.  And yet it is only February. Ash Wednesday is March 1st. But,  a solution is at-hand.

If you are on a diet and your self-restraint is bringing you low, I recommend subscribing to https://cooking.nytimes.com/recipes. Every few days, the New York Times sends me six or seven recipes. I look at the photograph; I read the recipe; and I feel a degree of satiation. A friend calls this “food porn.” Maybe. I’ll post a picture that I downloaded this week, and see for yourself. Do you feel just a bit satiated or are you hungrier than before?

 

2017-chick-wings

Spicy Lacquered Chicken Wings

 

Spicy, sticky, fragrant, and full-flavored. Roll these words in your mouth. Taste them. Do you feel full?

If not, have a glass of wine. I checked the calories – 3 oz. of dry wine will add 65-95 calories; 3 oz. of sweet or fortified wine will contribute 120-160. Luckily, the Super Bowl comes just once a year.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

About timeout2

I have lived 100 lives. I write essays, short stories, poetry, grocery lists and notes to myself. If I am ever lost, look for a paper trail, but be careful not to trip over any books that lie scattered here and there. I am a reader. I am a reader in awe of writers. When I don't live in Westcliffe, Colorado, I live in London where I am a long-time member of Word-for-Word - Crouch End.
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2 Responses to Sublimating Discontent

  1. Maria Weber says:

    I’m feeling so glutonous and guilty after reading your blog. I could eat the entire plate of wings and orange slices myself. As far as the Super Bowl goes – we are home alone this year. Maybe it’ll be popcorn during the half time show. But no football! (I read that poem too).

    • timeout2 says:

      Dear Maria, Just home from the groaning table that looked as it had been lifted from the Broadmoor. And yes, I filled several 7″ appetizer plates and one dessert plate plus two glasses of merlot and two cups of decaf. I should have had popcorn. I’m not so comfortable writing about love, so I probably need to sign up for Saturday’s workshop. Decision pending.

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