When the Whip Comes Down
Yesterday, flush with excitement at the prospect of the return of glorious golden summer, I went exploring in the remotest reaches of my closet for something that would decently cover me while allowing adequate ventilation in the unseasonably warm, July-esque weather of the metropolis. A skirt, a dress, even, Lord forgive me, a pair of shorts. Anything but jeans and boots.
The quest for footwear went quite well. After all, sandals always fit and it would be disingenuous of me to say my shoe collection is in any way lacking. My efforts to locate suitable daywear, however, were not crowned with similar success, and as I do every year, I wondered at the remarkable shrinkage that results when off-season garments sit around in the dark for several months. I’m inclined to blame the moths, but in truth, it’s those bastards Ben and Jerry and their asshole buddies at the Cupcake Cafe whose filthy chocolate fingerprints are all over this disaster, or more correctly, my ass and thighs. And so, once again, it’s back to the nutritional purgatory of the summer diet. This year, however, I’m dragging you along with me.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. “Didn’t you just return from a beach vacation, Kitchen Slattern? Surely you noticed some increase in girth while squeezing into a swimsuit.”
Folks, I have not worn anything briefer than a burqini in ten years. So practiced at the art of self-deception am I that I know better than to pack anything but a stack of sarongs (one size DOES fit all) and heels for my time in the tropics. In addition, I still possess enough human decency and regard for my fellow man to avoid appearing poolside with anything more than my forearms, ankles and head exposed. Of course, poor Mr. Slattern has seen things that would make a lesser man quail, but he’s made of stern stuff and has, I believe, learned to avert his gaze at critical moments. How else to explain that persistent crick in his neck?
Anyways, for the benefit of all I will be slithering down to about the fifth ring of Hell, where there are no baguettes or croissants, sugar is verboten and, God help me, the portable bar is all but closed down. (It doesn’t completely disappear until the sixth ring, I am told.)
So, I invite you to explore the scintillating world of low carb, low fat, low sin food with me for the next few months. Of course, I will still be offering up the occasional dessert for company — I just can’t let go of the idea of a salute to rhubarb; however, I will be trying to waddle a righteous path most of the time. Here’s a good place to begin:
I generally don’t condone processed foods, and as a rule I skip the Stonewall products because they are a) ruinously expensive and b) way too salty, but I love their Mango Lime Salsa. It’s sweet and spicy, not too salty, especially in small amounts, and it goes on almost anything. Let me tell you, a dollop on a piece of grilled chicken or fish goes a long way toward alleviating the crashing boredom of yet another goddamned piece of grilled chicken or fish, and you can even use it as a marinade on said lean proteins. A tasty treat even if it’ll never see the business side of a tortilla chip. Sigh.