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There Will Be Fats!
If you commit to eating like a French woman, that is
I've never had a six-hour span in which I've eaten so indulgently. Nothing like Sunday. That morning, my girlfriend served Applewood bacon alongside over-medium eggs with a splash of pork grease where butter or oil might have been. NFL brunch is the best thing about watching football on the West Coast.
After the game we walked a couple of blocks to catch a screening of American Gangster. There was ice cream at the refreshment stand, and I wanted it. For some reason, I wanted the cookies, too. They were three for $2, so what could I do? Once seated, I looked at my ice cream sandwich wrapper's nutrition facts and, goddamn it, I felt pretty bad. It took a lot of effort to swallow two of those three cookies.
And, a few hours later, there was that pork burrito from that Santa Monica taco stand.
Sunday may have been the fattest non-holiday of my adult life. (Except for maybe once, as a kid, when I ate a stick of butter on a dare.) But I'm only trippin' on the theory of it.
Last week I began reading Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat. (And by reading I mean skimming the book, digesting its press materials, and visiting the website.) Her whole thing is that how one eats is a state of mind, that Americans — women in particular — don't enjoy food. After that the premise gets familiar: Eat a wide range of food, in different portions, and it's all lovely. Drink tubloads of water. It's stuff we knew, but this well-observed, memoirish book makes the information feel fresh. I only wish she'd focused more on how French women smoke obsessively. Couple o' cancer sticks'll take that brie right offa ya!
After the game we walked a couple of blocks to catch a screening of American Gangster. There was ice cream at the refreshment stand, and I wanted it. For some reason, I wanted the cookies, too. They were three for $2, so what could I do? Once seated, I looked at my ice cream sandwich wrapper's nutrition facts and, goddamn it, I felt pretty bad. It took a lot of effort to swallow two of those three cookies.
And, a few hours later, there was that pork burrito from that Santa Monica taco stand.
Sunday may have been the fattest non-holiday of my adult life. (Except for maybe once, as a kid, when I ate a stick of butter on a dare.) But I'm only trippin' on the theory of it.
Last week I began reading Mireille Guiliano's French Women Don't Get Fat. (And by reading I mean skimming the book, digesting its press materials, and visiting the website.) Her whole thing is that how one eats is a state of mind, that Americans — women in particular — don't enjoy food. After that the premise gets familiar: Eat a wide range of food, in different portions, and it's all lovely. Drink tubloads of water. It's stuff we knew, but this well-observed, memoirish book makes the information feel fresh. I only wish she'd focused more on how French women smoke obsessively. Couple o' cancer sticks'll take that brie right offa ya!
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09:30 EST, 15.Feb.08
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