It is always around this time of year that my serotonin reserve is utterly depleted. While other people are still excited about their New Year’s resolutions and facing fresh goals I am trying to figure out how I will achieve the Herculean feat of getting out of my bathrobe. These episodes are interspersed with heavy infusions of carbs. Yesterday I enjoyed a big bowl of leftover spaghetti topped with fried potatoes. Carb on carb meals may not be for the faint hearted or for those hoping to fit into their pants when spring comes, but they feel therapeutic. Naturally I followed my starch plate with chocolate cookies, a handful of vitamins and and my happy herbs from the acupuncturist. I have no idea what is in my little herbal pearls but I don’t care. Perhaps it is odd that I am highly suspicious of my doctor when she recommends any type of conventional medication but when my acupuncturist passes me a new bottle of pills I happily pop them, no questions asked. She also is convinced that my salvation lies with giving up dairy. When she first mentioned this I paused and said, “Does that include cheese?”

“Yes. No cheese.”

“I thought you were supposed to make me feel better. I love my cheese. You can’t take my cheese away.”

She looked at me gently and then tapped me on the nose like a misbehaving puppy.

After my appointment I immediately went to my favourite cheese shop where they give out free samples. With my mouth full of cheese I told the counter guy about my acupuncturist’s recommendations for me, including the shunning of cheese.

“I think you need to find a new health care provider,” he said and handed me my purchase.

I guess I could do more to get through the winter. I could give up cheese and alcohol and eat a hard boiled egg every morning. The acupuncturist seems to think an egg a day will save me too. Maybe I should stop self medicating with carbs and go to the gym instead. I could do a lot of things but really all I want to do is sit under a blanket next to a calendar and cross off the days until I feel like a semi-normal person again. Ideally with a vat of macaroni and cheese and a chocolate fetching dog by my side.

It feels like just last week I was complaining about seeing Christmas displays before Halloween and the next thing I know it is New Years eve. My plans for homemade gifts, sumptuous feasts and whimsical decorating have been foiled again. One day I hope to spend the month of December smugly admiring my artfully arranged decorations while softly humming to myself as I cut out paper snowflakes. There is always next year.

Despite trying to simplify things as much as possible, the Christmas frenzy is palpable and contagious. One night on the streetcar a seemingly normal looking woman got on, let out a giant sigh and then yelled a string of obscenities. When she didn’t get any attention she calmly put on her headphones and sat quietly for the rest of the ride. I chalked it up to a mini Christmas meltdown. The holidays can do that to a person. One morning I found myself inexplicably running around the house with a slab of butter in one hand, a box of Christmas cards in the other, feeling completely scattered and flustered until I burst into tears.

Interspersed with these bouts of madness, however, there were little pockets of cheer. One girlfriend decided to have a Christmas party at the last minute, calling people the night before and leaving incoherent mumbled invitations as she was falling asleep. It felt more festive and celebratory than any well planned fete would have been. The Sweetie and I enjoyed a night watching an old Babara Stanwyck movie in our pajamas that left me feeling comforted and cozy. I made a pompom garland and hung it on our mantel where it looked utterly ridiculous. I recharged in baths scented with gingerbread bubbles.

The morning of Christmas Eve The Sweetie had to go to the hospital for an MRI which was scheduled at 4:30 am.  Walking in the frigid cold to catch the all night bus, affectionately known as the Vomit Comet, we had a chance to see Christmas lights and suddenly felt like we were having a lovely date. That night we gave the cat a special plate of tuna for his Christmas dinner and collectively marveled over the girth of the bloody Christmas tree that practically filled the entire room and had almost killed me carrying it home.

The Grinch is right. Christmas came without packages and baubles and roast beast. It came despite MRIs in the middle of the night and my disorganized ways and sugar fueled meltdowns. It felt like Christmas because there was a chance to savour the little things that matter. The stolen moments among the chaos and sweet times with loved ones made it feel merry. And the shortbread. The pounds and pounds of shortbread. That helped too.

In case you have been wondering what I have been up to, enjoy this video and instead of a dog, picture a woman in a bathrobe and instead of kibble imagine a pile of shortbread.

Found here

I have a confession to make. I am not a fan of pears. This admission always seems to provoke incredulous gasps and protests. There is always the indignant, “How can you not like pears? What did a pear ever do to you? What’s not to like about pears?” It is a texture thing for me. They are mushy. Often slimy. They bruise easily. I don’t like that overly sweet grainy sand-like sensation. Frankly, I find them a little pretentious. Perhaps being a small chested, child bearing hipped woman I resent the pear for invoking my shape. This hasn’t interfered with my love of butternut squash, however, which has a similar physique.

The Sweetie gets the same incredulous indignation when he admits that he doesn’t like smoked salmon. People can’t accept it. Rather than being indignant shouldn’t pear and smoked salmon lovers rejoice that there will be more left for them? The Sweetie does love pears though. Knowing this my parents brought over a pile of pears for him. Every day I nag him to eat the pears. I leave them in strategic spots for them to catch his eye, much like I do for myself with my vitamins. I decided to take matters into my own hands and save the pears, feeling heroic for saving something I don’t particularly like. It must be the season making me more charitable. I found a recipe for pear bread that looked enticing despite it’s star ingredient and set to work. It was delicious.

It turns out that pears have taught me a valuable lesson in keeping an open mind, expanding my horizons and overcoming biases. Unpalatable things can be made acceptable if we are willing to bend a little. All you need to do is put them in a cake.

I  have a new sunrise alarm clock that I bought in the ongoing battle against SAD. It is supposed to mimic rising with the sun and trick you into thinking that there will be light, even on the gloomiest of days. Instead of a blaring alarm, you hear a gentle steel band or chirping birds when it is time to wake up.

This morning was beautiful. It was dark when I got up. There is a peace that comes when the rest of the world still seems to be sleeping. I padded around quietly in my ratty old monkey slippers, my coffee cup warming my hands. The cat followed me briefly but was soon bored and curled up to go back to sleep. I felt calm and peaceful and relished the quiet. I made crepes, the mixing and the swirling on the pan feeling meditative and hypnotic. I wasn’t bothered by the ones that didn’t turn out. Momentarily I debated turning the radio on but decided that I wanted to pretend that I was the only person awake for a little while longer. As the sky started to brighten and streaks of  grey began to appear I filled a crepe with Nutella and ate it off my favourite cat plate. Whatever else happens today doesn’t really matter. It has already been a good day.

And then of course there is tonight to look forward to. Naturally I am the second guy.

Found here

The Sweetie has been suffering for almost two months with a bulging disc in his back, making sitting for any length of time impossible. Luckily he is not in terrible pain but he has been spending most of his days either standing or lying down. Our evenings consist of Sons of Anarchy marathons and eating our dinner from trays on the floor. His recovery has been a long and boring road with minimal progress and few encouraging milestones. Poor Sweetie. I would have lost my mind by the second day. If anything is wrong with me physically I instantly feel tragic and betrayed. I am indignant if I get a cold or a hangnail. Luckily The Sweetie is much more stoic. We can’t be brave little soldiers all the time, however, and everyone reaches a breaking point. The other day he was thoroughly fed up, tired of lying around and being housebound. We decided that the answer was a drunken Sunday brunch. Scads of bacon for him, veggie bacon for me, hot buttery toast and eggs. And mimosas. Lots and lots of mimosas. We would stuff ourselves, pour Bailey’s in our coffees and then have a leisurely Sunday afternoon nap.

Forget making lemonade when life hands you lemons. Save that for a sunny summer day. When you’re in the dark, cold days of late November it is time to get out the big guns. Sometimes a little escape is good. When The Sweetie and I were first dating I went through a period where I felt like I had hit rock bottom. I was broke, in debt, and I didn’t know how to claw myself out of a lifetime of eating ramen noodles and living hand to mouth. The Sweetie told me to get out of my pajamas, get dressed up and ready to go out. We went to a posh restaurant where we ate like kings, drank cocktails and had a spectacular night. “Sometimes when you’re at your lowest you need to remind yourself that good times will be back.” He explained as I sat in a chair built for a duchess while a waiter came by with a little silver scraper to remove the stray breadcrumbs from the tablecloth. Call it irresponsible or denial but sometimes distraction is good. Reality will come creeping back and practicality will rule once again, but that doesn’t mean that things have to suck all the time.

A mimosa stupor may not be the answer for a bulging disc but a little vacation from the crap is worthwhile. There are no prizes for martyrs and bleak realists, but there is brief respite for tipsy optimists.

It is the final day of the Canadian National Exhibition, which always symbolizes the end of summer. I wasn’t planning on going as I am on a strict summer-isn’t-over campaign, but then a girlfriend called and exclaimed, “I want to eat fried food on a stick, go on  rides, walk through the buildings and buy something stupid! Are you in?” Who can resist that? Of course I’m in. She had me at fried food on a stick. As The Sweetie and I were making our plans I said, “maybe you can try the Behemoth Burger”, a diabolical delicacy consisting of a burger nestled between two grilled cheese sandwiches, bacon optional.

“That’s true,” The Sweetie said, licking his chops, “I can split it with the other meat eaters.” (Since oddly enough they don’t have a vegetarian soy Behemoth on offer). He looked dreamy with anticipation.

“Or we could split the cheeseburger between two Krispy Kreme donuts. Or I could try the chocolate dipped bacon.” He continued.

I was sure that I saw a faint trickle of saliva forming in the corner of his mouth.

“Or we could have the deep fried butter!” I added excitedly.

There was silence as The Sweetie snapped out of his revelry and stared at me like I had grown three heads.

“That’s just disgusting.” He said.

The temperatures are soaring up to the high thirties today and with the humidex it is going to feel like it is in the high forties. That is a bit much, even for a heat lover like me. I expect people are going to spontaneously burst into flames on the street. Even if I end up as a sizzling smouldering heap of ashes on the sidewalk I will still take the heat over windchill any day.

To stay cool I will be making frozen fudge pops that I found on Epicurious. I may venture out to the video store later and rent The Thing. I’ll eat frozen treats and watch some carnage in the Antarctic, relieved that I am not freezing in some outpost, paranoid and tormented by an alien being.

Today is Canada Day so it seems appropriate that I come clean about my poutine obsession. For those unfamiliar with this Canadian bastion of caloric overload, poutine is a gooey masterpiece of french fries, gravy and cheese curds. It originated in Quebec and was one of my first discoveries when I moved to Montreal for university. Forget higher learning, I was educated in the school of french fry glory and was rapidly on my way to getting a doctorate. Poutine soon became a staple, along with caffeine, cigarettes and a steady diet of angst over the French boy in big sweaters who couldn’t decide if I enchanted or repelled him. Poutine was my constant and my comfort during those tormented pining-for-the-boy days.

I moved back to Toronto and eventually got over the oscillating, fickle French boy. I finally kicked my smoking and diet coke habit but the poutine addiction remained. Now that I am a vegetarian, I can’t indulge my addiction on a regular basis because vegetarian gravy isn’t always available. Intrepid seeker that I am, I have managed to find sources. Last week I went on a tear. I was with a fellow vegetarian who was raving about gourmet poutine. Gourmet and poutine in the same sentence is a bit of an oxymoron but I was intrigued. We decided to have a poutine-off, the old school poutine versus the newfangled gourmet version with goat cheese and mushrooms. Two baskets of poutine later I remained undecided.

A few days later I was out with girlfriends and again found poutine on the menu. I had planned on having salad, vowing that I was turning over a new healthy eating leaf. I thought that perhaps my binding summer clothes would fit by labour day if  I reintroduced vegetables into my diet. The appearance of vegetarian poutine was unexpected and immediately threw me off course. Rather than staying with my salad intentions, I began to worry that my trough of poutine wouldn’t be big enough.

I am a woman of obsessions and I can’t seem to do anything in moderation. I tried to be a social smoker years ago and immediately began filling my social calendar with nightly events in order to be able to smoke. You can’t give a girl like me a basket of poutine and then expect me to move on to healthier pursuits. The beast has been unleashed and the gravy laden monkey is on my back.

Patriotic as it may be to eat poutine on Canada Day, I must throw in the greasy towel. I’m sure tonight’s fireworks will look like sparkling cheese curds in the sky but I will stay strong and find another way to honour my Canadian roots. There is always beer.

The warm weather has finally arrived and I am starting to believe that summer may happen after all. With the joy of summer, however, comes the fleshy reality of a winter spent on the couch self medicating with carbs. Not being able to hide under layers of sweaters and heavy coats is a little scary.

Feeling some desperation setting in, I read reviews of the latest diet books promising rapid results. Rapid is the operative word. Diets are challenging for me because I don’t eat meat and many seem to be based on lean meats and steamed vegetables. One book promised up to eight pounds of weight loss in five days by only eating spinach, eggs, raspberries, yogurt and almonds. Five days of this culinary snore-fest might help me lose weight but I would likely die of boredom and wouldn’t be around to enjoy my new lean self.

Then I found it. The 21 Day Weight Loss Kickstart claimed that I could lose up to six pounds in a week. It was a vegan diet so I wouldn’t need to worry about finding substitutions for meat. I wouldn’t have to count calories, and the clincher: I wouldn’t have to exercise. Perfect. I bought some soy milk and started making plans for my new lighter summer self.

My heart sank when I read that some of this miraculous weight loss involved cutting out fat. It claimed that I could squeeze a lemon on my vegetables and I wouldn’t miss creamy salad dressings. Oh, I beg to differ. I had also somehow overlooked the fact that being a vegan means not eating cheese. As I was panicking about this sacrifice I heard about a cheese festival taking place this weekend in Prince Edward County. Squeaky cheese curds in a beautiful country setting served with alcoholic cider were waiting for me. Obviously it was a sign from the cheese gods. They weren’t ready to let me go, and who can blame them? I am their most faithful minion. Moreover, it is gelato season. Summer is so fleeting and if I can’t traipse about with a dripping cone of dreamy pistachio gelato, why even have summer?

It comes down to choices. Do I choose to be a smaller size or to enjoy delicious, fat-laden, creamy dairy? Dairy wins. Screw you vegans! You can kiss my cottage cheesy ass.