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I suppose any starting point is a good starting point...

    Yesterday, I wrote a piece for class about my childhood in Manhattan Beach, and more specifically about how my brother and I used to sneak out to the mini mart down the road and buy candy behind my mom’s back.  I tried to make the piece funny, but I think it just turned out uncomfortable, because that’s exactly how I felt writing it, like I was peeling back my skin and showing the world my big gaping flaw: I like sweets.  In fact, as a kid I was mildly obsessed with them, but even now I’m a huge fan (as evidenced by my baking blog).  And I hate that my sweet tooth makes me feel like I’ve done something wrong, because to me it’s the strongest evidence the prosecution could cite in the case against the fatty– clearly I wasn’t fat because I ate too much asparagus.

    And it doesn’t matter that I love asparagus now, or that I’ll often pass up a rich chocolate cake for a plate of grilled zucchini, because the fact remains that I also still love me some dessert.  Which makes me feel like I haven’t reformed enough, like a sinner who’s born again but still likes to have the occasional gay orgy on weekends.  Part of me wants to shout at myself “it’s all or nothing, chubbo!  There’s no halfway in weight loss!”

    But of course that’s the crux of it: I haven’t come far enough, haven’t gotten thin enough to be allowed to eat sweets as often as I do.  I don’t think I’ll ever be thin enough though– certainly not at this rate, given that I refuse to give up sweets!  Or buffalo mozzarella.  Or fassone steak at Ristorante Semplice.  Sigh.  This just brings us back to the same old question…

    The good news is I finally have a piece of writing that might fit into my book.  I want to do a chapter on the different attitudes towards food in my family, and the different ways in which my thin brother and I were treated with regard to food.  And I really want to put some funny things in there (like the time my brother convinced my health nut mom to buy cookie crisp cereal, or the way we used to hoard “cookie crackers,” the slightly sweet whole wheat crackers my parents would put out with cheese for guests… god our dessert options were pathetic!).  In fact, ideally the whole book will be laced with funny bits, but lets not get ahead of ourselves.

    PS sorry this piece is so rambly.  It’s late and I have dishes to do.  SIGH.
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