The time has come for desperate measures. I have been getting more and more alarmed by my expanding girth but my fourteen year old boy appetite cannot be tamed. I am not a woman who craves salads, light healthy meals and clean eating. I have the palette of a truck driver and unfortunately I am starting to resemble one.

When planning my recent trip to Newfoundland I was looking forward to eating fish and chips. I ate a form of fried fish and chips every day, sometimes accompanied by a small plastic cup of coleslaw as a token vegetable. Not everyone has the chops for such feats of oil and batter but for my mighty iron stomach it was pure grease induced bliss. My feasts induced a dreamlike trance, akin to what opium den dwellers must experience, with glassy half-lidded eyes and an overwhelming need to recline on silky pillows. I half expected to die of a french fry induced stroke but I would have gone happily, requesting that my greasy ashes be scattered over the crashing waves of the Atlantic. It was a glorious greasy time.

It has to stop. I was at a Dancing With Parkinson’s event last night at a salsa club surrounded by shimmying supermodels in tiny dresses. I chugged gin and tonics in my frumpy sensible skirt, felt the sweat running down the back of my legs, my fried fish barrel gut straining against my Spanx. I capped off the evening by convincing The Sweetie that I needed an eggplant parmesan sandwich to soak up the gin. Obviously the sight of skinny models wasn’t enough motivation to change my fried food proclivities. Nevertheless I woke up this morning with a slight hangover and new resolve. I will reintroduce fruits and vegetables into my life and work towards doing my pants up again.

The temperature has dropped over the past few days, offering up a bit of respite from the humidity and allowing me a break from lamenting my regretful winter of eating nothing but carbs and avoiding the gym. When the thermometer rises I am thrown into a panic knowing that I can no longer hide under layers of clothing, attributing the extra bulk to my sweaters and puffy coat. I begin to worry that I will have to resort to wearing Mrs.Roper inspired caftans and send myself into a tailspin of carb bloated remorse. The cooler temperatures put a temporary halt to my panic so naturally, I decided to bake chocolate chip cookies.

I was intrigued by these chocolate chip cookies I saw on Smitten Kitchen that were described as the ever elusive crispy on the outside chewy on the inside cookie. I think these may indeed be the ones, although I can’t say for sure because I ate half of the cookie dough before they went in the oven, and I managed to overcook the remainder because I got distracted looking at arm exercises on the internet. The irony of watching exercises while eating cookie dough is not lost on me. I will try these again during the next cool spell, perhaps while sporting a new summer caftan.

I love phyllo pastry. I have always loved its crispy transparent layers and I could eat a truck load of baklava until my teeth melted from the sweetness. I have always been too intimidated to use it myself, however. All the talk of covering the pastry with a damp towel and brushing it with oil seemed too finicky for my liking. I am not particularly precise when I cook, forgoing measuring cups and often forgetting how long something has been in the oven. Despite my fear of phyllo I must have had plans for it at some point because there has been a box of it sitting in the freezer forever. It regularly falls out and hits The Sweetie or me on the foot, along with my frozen banana collection that will one day yield enough banana bread to feed an entire city.

Since the tax-time meltdown The Sweetie and I have resolved to start eating our way through the pantry and freezer in an attempt to be more frugal and save on our grocery bills. As a result it was finally time to face the phyllo before it crushed our toes.

Phyllo is a dream and does not deserve its fearful reputation. I made two large spanakopitas, and being my new non-wasteful self, I used Nutella as a filling for the leftover bits, brushed them with melted butter, baked for 15 to 20 minutes and almost swooned as I gobbled them up. So delicious.

I will no longer let my fear of damp cloths get in the way of phyllo pastry joy.

Now this is a breakfast befitting an Easter bunny and all his minions. Hash browns made of pound cake, melted Cadbury’s Easter Creme eggs topping a donut and brownie. Surely it would send one into an instant diabetic coma but what a glorious sendoff it would be.

Despite my proclamations to be prepared for Easter this year, with visions of sending a hand knit bunny to my nephew, lovingly painting delicate eggs a la Martha Stewart, and crafting an Easter bonnet just for fun, I have done nothing. I did drop a few not so subtle hints to loved ones that I am very fond of Cadbury’s Caramilk eggs, but that is the extent of my Easter preparedness. Sadly it is somewhat akin to my crafty Christmas fantasies that also never seem to materialize.

In my defense, my potential crafty time was consumed with other Easter musings. I have spent an inordinate amount of time wondering why the Easter bunny is often depicted wearing a jaunty bow tie or vest but rarely wearing pants. If he is decked out for the holidays in a vest, why stop there? Did he forget about donning pants because his mind is on chocolate? Do the pants slow him down and get in the way of his hopping? Is the Easter bunny some sort of exhibitionist freak?

Of course, when I started looking for images of a pant-less Easter bunny I couldn’t find any. Now I am disturbed, wondering if I have somehow sexualized or sullied the innocent Easter bunny in my own mind and perhaps I won’t receive a single Cadbury’s egg as a result.

It is one of those days. It is spring and I should be happy but I feel an undertone of dread. I sipped my morning coffee only to discover that the milk was sour. My throat is a little scratchy and I have been feeling a little achy the past couple of days. It doesn’t help that I am gearing up to do my taxes, which is always a nightmare. I hate tax time. It is when I realize I have no organizational skills, still file things in old cracker boxes and have no savings. I feel like a big fat loser with a nacho belly.

I have been watching episodes of Til Debt Do Us Part on television at the gym trying to rid myself of my ever expanding nacho/guacamole/beer gut. It is a show featuring couples in debt and the guru who tries to get them back on track. She scolds them, cuts up their credit cards and gives them responsible money tasks. Meanwhile I am sweating on a stupid cardio machine whipping myself into an anxiety attack and kicking myself for all the useless purchases I’ve made throughout the year. Why did I need any more items featuring animal motifs? Why do I leave my taxes to the last minute and then cry when I realize what a financial misfit I am? Why do I lament the same things year after year yet never make a change? What is the point of exercising if I’ve already scarfed down piles of buttery toast and potato latkes for breakfast, delicious as they were.

Luckily I came across this, which made me feel a little bit better for a brief moment before I slid back into self-flagellation.

I have returned from a glorious week of sunshine, booze and buffets and am a more benevolent person as a result. Things were getting a little frightening leading up to my departure. Depleted of sunshine for too long, I had a dark soul and a bleak bleak heart. It is amazing what a little infusion of sunshine will do. It has been blustery and rainy for a couple of days since my return and I haven’t been bothered in the slightest.

Beach vacations are glorious. There was candy coloured brightness everywhere, on the clothes, the flowers and inflatable water toys. The sounds were delightful – the blaring mariachi music, the clickity clack of my flip flops, a deranged rooster who would start crowing incessantly at 3 in the morning, the hypnotic crash of the surf. I was mesmerized by the pelicans that flew like a fleet of freaky pterodactyls. I was charmed by the beach dogs who were gentle and wild at the same time, leaning against my leg for a nice rub behind the ears but looking like they could chew my arm off at any moment.

I loved uninterrupted time with The Sweetie. We invented a new game where he would lift me up in the water and pretend to throw me to the ocean as an offering.

I fell into a rhythm of sleeping when I was sleepy, moving when I felt like moving, and eating when I was hungry which turned out to be all the time. The Sweetie was trying to find out the Spanish word for vacuum as he was sure that that was the waiters’ nickname for me every time I neared the buffet. By mid-week I was using my ever increasing belly as a cup holder and book-rest as it spilled out over my bathing suit.

I came home resembling a barrel, all bloated and boozy. My clothes were straining and tight by the end of the week. I love that I don’t care right now. I am sun kissed, fat and jolly and I have survived another winter.