I'm in love with a food in quotes.
I'm not proud of this. I feel like, if we're going to have an honest love affair, it will have to have an actual name instead of the quotation mark foolishness it's parading around with. It's better than that. Don't pretend to be anyone else, sweetness. Just be YOU! Just name YOU! I know you feel pressured to imitate what you think I miss, but I love you just as you are. You are so much more than "Oatmeal." From this day forth, I shall call you, "Meuslove." Here, let me introduce you to everyone.
Everyone, this is Meuslove. We're very serious with each other, and I hope you welcome this new addition to our relationship.
I admittedly made this recipe without a couple of things I needed. I didn't have the unsweetened coconut, the cashew milk, or the almond butter. I subbed sunflower seed butter and a splash of almond milk. I still damn near passed out from how good this was. Later, when i had all the ingredients, I made this again. Verdict: keep the sun butter. Add the coconut and the cashew milk. The almond butter is STILL delicious, but i love the salty sweetness of sun butter. Lemme say "sun butter" again. Sun butter. There we go.
I have other stuff to report from these two days, but I COULD just talk about the perfection of this breakfast. It's so easy. It's do damned good. It's filling. Will I still make it when I'm allowed oatmeal again? I don't think I have a choice. We are forever bound to one another. Like ribbons of sun butter (drink!) around our wrists in a lavish ceremony, we are eternally connected.
No, I don't think I have an unhealthy relationship with food, why do you ask?
In case you need proof that we are slowly losing our minds while eating on this plan, I will tell you of two exchanges. The first is when my husband moved an appointment for me to attend a rehearsal. It was a huge relief. Then he let me know that he rescheduled the appointment.
"I moved it to this Tuesday, and I don't think I can move it again without getting fined. So let's try not to double book."
I didn't say anything. I just...blinked for a minute. I didn't want to be the one to tell him. He wasn't arriving on his own, though. Eventually, I had to.
"So. Do you wanna give the bird her birthday presents that morning....or...?"
He had booked an evening appointment after a full day's work on our kid's 5th birthday. Then curses flew out of his mouth as he realized what happened.
"Well," he offered, "we can give them to her tonight!"
I just stared. Again.
"God damnit," he muttered, as he remembered he also works on Monday nights. This poor fucking guy.
We sat, enjoying our new lover breakfast...no. I'm not going to call it that again. I'm so sorry. We sat, enjoying our breakfast, as he decided he'd take Tuesday day off. He then got ready for work while I sat in postcoital food glow. NO. No. That's not okay. I'm so sorry. That's...that's inappropriate.
He came to me with a worried look. This was the second exchange.
"I am so so sorry. But I have to go."
I blinked at him again. "Okay," I thought. "Kiss me and get outta here."
"So. Do you need me to pack my own lunch? I mean, I can...I just...don't know what's..."
I had totally forgotten. We went from him spacing out to me, and I leapt off the couch with great speed. "I'VE GOT IT. I WAS JUST SITTING HERE WHILE YOU SHOWERED HANG ON."
Jesus. We're gonna forget each other's names by next week.
I got the bird to school, somehow remembering where it was located in my haze. Progress! After that, I had to work and then hit the store, because I have a cot in the back where I nap now. Just a place to, you know, collect my thoughts while I spend half my life there. They're real cool about it. It's right behind the butcher counter, and I just walk in, wave hello to George while he whacks an animal into parts, and I just lie down under my dreamcatcher. It's peaceful.
I am perfectly tethered to reality on this plan. Why?
I was picking up the supplies called for in the Meuslove recipe so I would not ever be without my divine gift -- no. No, that's weird, too. Ok. I'm just...I'll just move past it now -- and the short ribs for the next night's dinner. As I looked for a small bottle of apple cider for braising, cashew milk and almond butter already in my cart, I found myself singing along to "Wild Boys" by Duran Duran over the PA. Because that's just who I am now. Also, that's a goddamned jam. Kudos, supermarket.
After the store applauded my performance and George handed me a bouquet, I headed to the checkout. The conveyor belt told a story of our journey, lo these last 12 days.
I'm sure I shoved something good and compliant into my face for lunch, but I was riding the sweet sweet high of Simon LeBon's crooning, so I can't say for sure. All I know is that the Wild Boys are calling on their way back from the fire...
*stares off into distance*
*drools a little*
Um. Ok. So I got back to work, writing scripts and monologues and marketing for this gal. It's not enough that I'm eating like I'm wearing a fur toga in a hipster cave, I'm also trying to be creative for cash. My hope is that there isn't a noticeable drop in my work. Like it doesn't suddenly go from an abundance of ideas for my clients to, "YOU KNOW WHAT? NO ONE CARES. JUST STAND THERE AND FART. THAT'LL DO." Because that's what it feels like I'm saying most of the time. "Hey, Corrbette, about the free class I'm teaching this weekend -- " "TOOOOOOOOT."
I have all the confidence in the world this is going well. Why?
For dinner, I began what would become an impressively long streak of red meat eating. Keep in mind, I don't know who I'm impressing, but I still feel like this level of consumption warrants some kind of admiration from some committee somewhere.
It started innocently enough. With a burger. Now...if there's no bread and I'm using lettuce for a bun, do I have to put the damn thing in quotes? Cause I'm not gonna. I saw a suggestion for sweet potato "buns," but the buns were in quotes which means they're disqualified and I don't know why they're not just "sweet potato slices." COME ON, EVERYONE. Burger between two slices of sweet potato. That way, I don't have to think about the word "buns" for too long while it's accentuated by quotes. Just like my own buns. I don't know what that means, but "buns." Butt Buns. DAMMIT. I'm so sorry. Really. I'm not well.
So I made them. They're very easy. Thing is, though, sweet potatoes aren't very wide. So you get some delicious sweet potato...rounds.
There was no way two of those were going to hold a burger, even a small one. So I threw some lettuce on it, used the sweet potato as topping, and served it with cauliflower mash. That's the glorious thing I made before that tastes like butter, coconut cream, and fluffy dream clouds. I mean, it's just delightful. I now want you to look at the sweet potato slice garnish. I pointed it out in case you don't have microscopic vision.
It's like I went from eating food mountains to appetizers for my kid's Barbies. I gave the bird some of this delicious burger, but with bread, and she refused to eat it. Because five-year-old. She devoured the same combo not two weeks prior. So. More burger for me! No bread, though. I just stared at it, sang it a little lullaby, and threw it into the trash.
This is a new challenge. With a picky eater kid, we would usually gobble up her leftovers. Sometimes, that was our only meal and we would tell each other in shorthand that's what we had. "Did you have dinner?"
"I had Scraps of My Daughter."
But now, we can't do that. So if Her Majesty suddenly decides her favorite food is "yuck," and we can't get her to eat it, we throw it away. We've had talks about wasting food before, but they're about to get WAY more serious. On top of that, her former favorites (chicken patties, tater tots, potstickers) are taking up space in our freezer, and she will no longer eat them. Should I be feeding my kid Tyson chicken patties to begin with? HELL NO. When she was wee, I only bought her organic and sustainable food, pureed it myself, and fed it to her on a bamboo spoon I had just whittled. Now, I'm so happy when she eats, I'd probably just deep fry a shoe if there was protein in it. Ok ok. Not a shoe. A sock, though. If she'd eat it. (Before you call DCFS, know that I do actually give her a balanced meal. She just refuses some stuff sometimes. Everyone calm down. the kid loves carrots, plums, broccoli, and snap peas. Ssshh).
This is one of the many many reasons I am not on Pinterest. I don't want to be told how I should be making everything look. As you can see from my food photos, I have zero fucks to put a Toaster filter onto. Otherwise, I'd be making my kid this. And no one...I mean NO ONE...should have time for this.
I went off track for a minute, but these last 13 days have me thinking about what WE'RE eating, sure, but also what she's eating...or won't eat. Also, writing this blog is making me think about how our food looks. Bird isn't one to be fooled by cute presentation. Bento boxes don't make her want to dive into something gross. If I tell her something is celery and almond butter, though, she's game. Just like us, she wants to know what is IN her food.
Unless it's processed cinnamon waffles. Then just make 18 of them and put them in her mouth before she kills you.
The next day would be her birthday, and an entire day off. for all of us We were set to wrap presents that night, but I fell asleep putting her to bed, likely lulled by thoughts of Simon LeBon's hair brushing my cheek...I really am sorry. It just seems to keep happening. I think I have it under control and then...an August moon surrenders to a dust cloud on the rise...
Anyway. I woke up at about 11pm, shuffled out to the living room, and told my husband we'd wake up early to wrap the gifts. I needed sleep. I had dreams of Meuslove and Duran Duran to get to. Judge me if you want. I'm taking all the tiny bits of happiness I can find, here.