The Blue Pitcher

that which may be filled and emptied

Category: Weight Watchers

Call for Recipes

My college friend, Elisabeth over at littlemissmel, sent me an email today asking for recipes; I’m completely terrified. Here’s a woman I shared a boyfriend with (We love you, Fred Welch!); a woman I haven’t laid eyes on in years but who looks more and more beautiful (and thinner!) in every internet photo I see; a woman who has a child and a husband and a heckuva sense of humor. So how do I send her a recipe that doesn’t completely betray the woman I (want to) have become?

Do I confess that all of my recipes come out of the Weight Watchers Slow Good cookbook? Do I, say, let the email get lost in “the wedding shuffle” and simply not respond? Do I send the recipe for the beloved “Peanutbutter Stuff” (seemingly equal parts: peanut butter, syrup, sugar and butter; stir; chill) that I was raised on? Or do I own up to it all and write the email that admits that most nights we eat out, and the ones we don’t, I (out of some caloric penance) un-thaw a piece of Sam’s tilapia, throw it on aluminum foil with salt, pepper and olive oil and call it a night?

O, dear readers, although I sometimes pretend you don’t exist (alas…a holdover from my poetry days!), I need you now. Send recipes. Anything. Maybe even everything. And dad, I’ll be waiting for the hot dog casserole recipe–the ingredients of which, as instructed by my therapist, I blocked out.

Advertisements

Let them eat cake!

This is Addison Maxine. She is my (very sweet and funny) god daughter. Last week she turned one. Imagine being one! Imagine the cake! Imagine burying your face into the cake, and your fingers; imagine going deeper and deeper into it and not knowing that this is exactly what you are supposed to be doing, that this cake is all for you, that no one will say no or slap your hand;
you won’t have to go to therapy or Weight Watchers or to that little place with the psychic in the west village; you can bury yourself in the chocolate, and the people around you–the people who have never hurt you, who have only loved you–will clap and snap photographs; they’ll sing you a song, and you, you delighted little beast of a human, will keep eating because you have made it; you have made it to one (to one!), and you need all the chocolate you can get to make it another 99 years!

Cravings vs. Urges

Do you crave the flesh of the dead? If so, check out my brother’s website: http://www.myspace.com/everette_hartsoe. Not only does he dabble in Vamperotica, he actually submerges himself in it. This is the brother I didn’t know about until I was fifteen: the sun shined after many weeks without sun, and we went to King’s Mountain to pedal boat and eat pimento cheese sandwiches; dad says, “Say hello to your brother;” “Hey,” we say our breath thick with french onion dip; eventually night came (and again and again), until I woke up today to find an email from him.

But this isn’t really about my brother Everette, nor am I peddling his online goods (buy away: http://www.ehartsoe.com/), it’s about cravings vs. urges. Picture this: yesterday at noon I sat in the community room at the local Jewish Center. My Weight Watchers leader was Mary-Lou-Rentoning her way up and down the aisles. We must identify the difference between a craving and an urge, she said.

I think there was an Amen, maybe even a Hallelujah. We experimented: Smelling popcorn at the movie theater and wanting it? Urge.

Hearing the girl next to you pack her Marlboro Lights loudly against the palm of her hand? Urge. Wanting to jump on the Greyhound and go wait tables in Wyoming? Pure urge.

To crave, you’ve gotta go deep. It’s got to be insatiable–satisfied only by the very thing you are craving. For my Weight Watchers leader (she sheepishly confessed) that thing is cheesecake; for Everette, at least according to his website, it’s barely-dressed women wandering bloody streets in search of flesh. And me? Hmm…I’ll get back to you on that one.