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.

I spent last weekend in Boston visiting my sister, niece and nephew. My niece is a living doll with sumo wrestler thighs and my nephew has a tiny voice that makes any of his chatter completely endearing.

Alas, the wee rug rats were riddled with germs, and I returned to a doozy of a virus that has left me flattened, barf bucket by the bedside.

“Remember that I always loved you,” I’d croak tragically from the bed when The Sweetie would check on me.

“Can I get you anything?” He’d ask, his mouth covered protectively, keeping a safe distance away from my toxic germs.

“Just a gun. I’m ready to go,” I’d whisper.

“In that case can I eat your Cadbury’s chocolate egg?” He asked.

I am slowly mending, although when I do a mental inventory of food groups, most still make my stomach churn. Not the long gone Cadbury’s egg, though. I feel pretty confident that I could stomach some therapeutic chocolate. It is disconcerting for someone like me to want to shun food. Sadly, I checked the scale and my suffering hasn’t yielded a smidgen of weight loss. Sometimes there is no justice.

I couldn’t sleep last night. I had made the mistake of watching the news before going to bed. The devastation in Japan and the non-stop barrage of misery made me wish that I could live in a little bubble where nothing scary, or sad, or destructive happens. I should have poured myself a gin and tonic and had a bath. Instead I found myself on the couch at three in the morning, eating a bowl of almonds and didn’t get back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Bleary eyed, I met a girlfriend for breakfast at Lady Marmalade in Leslieville where the walls are bright green and every table has a different set of tacky salt and pepper shakers. I guzzled coffee, admired the cowboy boot shakers and devoured a plate of  Huevos Rancheros. After we were suitably stuffed we did some thrifting at Value Village where my fragile eyes were assaulted by breast slippers. Why on earth…

It feels strange that I can be eating breakfast and carrying on with my silly little day while the world gets rocked by devastation over and over again. It doesn’t make sense. Breast slippers don’t make sense. The only thing I can do is be grateful for all that I have, day by day, because everything hangs by such a delicate thread.