As a card carrying XX chromosome’d individual (aka – a female), I like to think I’m pretty attuned to my emotional status at all times.
24/7. 365 (unless it’s a leap year, in which case – 366).
So it came as a shock even to me when I ran into my old roommate this past weekend and, when she asked how running was going for me, I replied that I had taken three weeks off because I was burnt out.
Uhhh, what?
The.Boy. is still getting used to this whole “dating a vegetarian” thing.
The other day he informed me that if he were a vegetarian, he would eat fish every day.
Really. It happened.
Occasionally I break out some telepathic kung fu karate chop skillz. At the most inappropriate times, of course.
Like…when I’m in the kitchen and I go to flip a cake out of its pan onto a plate. And it cracks into no fewer than five pieces, half of it inevitably remaining attached to the pan even though gravity would have it otherwise.
And while, to the unassuming eye, it might look like I merely didn’t grease my pan properly. (Who, ME?!?!? Never.) I think we all know that the secret ninja that lives inside my left bicep mistook that cake for a block of wood. And, through her finely tuned mental prowess, chopped it into oblivion without me even having to move a muscle! Really, we’re just lucky she doesn’t have a vendetta against my carotids. Let’s keep it that way.
The panic started to set in on day two.
Because twenty four hours without exercise is reasonable. Recommended, even, at least once a week for those of us who have a tendency to hit the gym as if our lives (and certainly our waist circumference) depend on it.
But forty eight? That’s just a bad week.
Seventy two is uncalled for.
Ninety six is. well. Strange and unusual and thoroughly unprecedented. Would my muscle cells revolt from lack of use? Would my adipocytes start doing keg stands in a fit of sheer exuberance? And most importantly, would my brain shut down from all the lack-of-exercise-induced anxiety that was sure to be thrust upon it?
It was anyone’s guess.
Bathing suit season is looming ever nearer but rather than give ourselves goosebumps about it, we should all just eat this salad! Head on over to Marcus Samuelsson’s blog for my post and the recipe!
Eating green balls gives me nightmares.
Oh yes! You nod in agreement even though it is surely not what you think.
All prepubescent innuendo aside and given the fact that my father’s chlorophyll-a-phobia most certainly skipped a generation, I am referring to the fact that when you soak dried chickpeas for 24 hours and then throw them still raw into a food processor along with an array of middle eastern herbs and spices and then pulse pulse pulse as if your life depends on it…
…what you will end up with is not something cohesive or smooth or whole.
At the least, it will not give you any faith at all that it can be plopped into a bowl of simmering curry-spiced tomato sauce and not melt into a bowl of now sorta-green mush upon contact.
Chickpea dumplings? Psssshhh. Those are surely pipe dreams that require some sort of binding agent or sorcery. No doubt about it.
Welcome to Eats Well With Others, where we take a vegetable-and-cupcake laden approach to life (always with a bit of laughter on the side)!
