Wednesday, May 14, 2008
The Great Veggie Experiment
I'll be 33 years old this year. But anyone who knows me (or has tried to get a nicely-posed photograph out of me) knows that I am more like, well, an infant. Or maybe a misbehaved -- and kind of disproportionately large -- toddler.
Never is this more evident than when my eating habits are called into question. Oh sure, I have a good routine established for most days -- a Kashi peanut butter bar for breakfast, a frozen WW meal for lunch along with some fat free Pringles and WW yogurt, and then whatever happens to be made for dinner by my lovely wife.
But that's the thing. She's getting more confident in the kitchen and she really likes veggies. She has this weird thing where we absolutely must have sides with every meal. If there aren't sides -- or enough sides -- she has mini-freakouts.
"Mmmm, hon, this steak is marinated so well. It's gonna be great."
"I don't know what we're going to do about sides!"
This sort of exchange plays out more than you might think. I don't get it. Who cares what's on your plate as long as you're full at the end? I mean, this is not to say I think you should eat a bowl of potato chips for dinner. Far from it.. I think there needs to be a hearty, main course-ish thing to eat. Such as steak, chicken, fish, sandwiches, pasta, eggs, etc. Whatever. But not without sides. In fact, I think my wife should write a move for the Lifetime Network entitled, Not Without My Sides.
So naturally, this has led to what J will and will not eat. And the "will not" list isn't as lengthy as everyone thinks. But once people think you're "picky" or "fussy," the label never -- never -- goes away. My idiot cousins still think I won't eat meat lasagna because one time when I was a kid I said I preferred cheese lasagna b/c that's what my grandmother (and mother) used to make. I absoultely loved their cheese lasagna and still do. So my mother assumed, in her early-onset dementia, that meant I hated all other lasagna. While I probably made a face about veggie lasagna, I never claimed to not like meat. And she knows this, because whenever she -- or anyone else in a 50 mile radius of my nose -- makes meatballs, I eat as many as possible. Yet a couple years ago, when I was about 30 or so, my cousins came to my parents' house for Christmas and brough two fucking lasagnas. One for everybody except me and one without meat because, "J doesn't eat meat lasagna." The hell?
Anyway, I'm digressing. Point is, people think I'm picky and more picky than I actually am. When in reality, it's simply that I know what I like and I like to have what I like a lot. You know? I'd eat the same five or six meals in rotation every week for the next thirty years if it was allowed. But if you do that, people look at you like you're a four year old who only eats chicken fingers, hot dogs and mac-n-cheese. (Three staples I'm not ashamed to admit I find delicious.)
Okay, digressing again. The whole point of this post was to share the fact that my lovely wife wants to be able to make veggies with dinner on a nightly basis. She loves veggies. Eats them like snacks. She'd eat a box of edimame or frozen green beans as a snack. She's weird. But she's hot, so I let her stay.
Me, I like me a main course and if I have to have a side, I choose a starch. Nice, fattening, carbohydrate-laden starches. Potatoes, rice, pasta. Whatever. Hell, I married an Italian woman, one would think I'd get a bowl of pasta at the start of ever meal followed by some codfish and then a main course of meat. Those Godfather movies were full of shit.
So I agreed, as I have in the past, to eat -- or at least, try -- anything my wife puts in front of me. I want credit for this, because I rarely say, flat-out, no, I'm not eating that. I'll try it or I'll at least tell you I once tried it and don't like it. At that point, you should back off. I'm 215 lbs and I will hurt you if you continue to press your luck. You can only force me to put things in my mouth if you let me put things in your mouth. Which leads us to my wife.
Wait -- well, you know what I meant.
What this agreement meant was that I'd be eating veggies on a semi-regular basis for the first time since my youth when my mother would withhold dessert from me until I choked down some broccoli. I remember the table being cleared and me still sitting there with a few stalks of broccoli or cauliflower or something else equally disgusting. And the Welsh Farms ice cream sitting there in the freezer, like a glorious finish line.
Anyway, I've already been making progress in the past year. I eat salads occasionally now, and that's all due to my wife. The first time my mom saw me eating salad I think she almost fainted. Or maybe she thought I liked salad all along. It's not meat lasagna after all.
So a week or two ago, I had some squash. It was okay, kind of reminded me of a sweet potato. A yellowish sweet potato. And it didn't taste like a sweet potato. But other than that, it was wonderful. I loaded it up with Smart Balance fake-butter and salted it and gobbled it down. It didn't bother me that much so I was pleased with myself. And Watersyne was thrilled also.
Then the next one was green beans. Now, I hate most green veggies. Which, I admit, doesn't leave much. But as I said earlier, I'd eat the same thing every night so this shouldn't be a problem. But my wife doesn't want to eat the same thing all the time and also doesn't want to make me special meals, so I have to branch out. So I ate a half-dozen green beans with dinner one night. I admit, it wasn't a large sampling, but I ate the damn things and my critics should be happy with that.
Then a couple nights ago it was pepper time. I cooked red, yellow and orange sweet peppers on the grill along with shish-ke-bob steaks and away we went. I ate several pieces of each color, not particularly enjoying them but also not vomiting. I felt like I'd done a good job and then Watersyne put the same number of pieces I'd just eaten onto my plate and said I should finish those and she'd be happy. So I did. I love her. What can I say? I'll eat salad, peppers and green beans for her.
And there doesn't even have to be Welsh Farms ice cream waiting for me at the end.
Never is this more evident than when my eating habits are called into question. Oh sure, I have a good routine established for most days -- a Kashi peanut butter bar for breakfast, a frozen WW meal for lunch along with some fat free Pringles and WW yogurt, and then whatever happens to be made for dinner by my lovely wife.
But that's the thing. She's getting more confident in the kitchen and she really likes veggies. She has this weird thing where we absolutely must have sides with every meal. If there aren't sides -- or enough sides -- she has mini-freakouts.
"Mmmm, hon, this steak is marinated so well. It's gonna be great."
"I don't know what we're going to do about sides!"
This sort of exchange plays out more than you might think. I don't get it. Who cares what's on your plate as long as you're full at the end? I mean, this is not to say I think you should eat a bowl of potato chips for dinner. Far from it.. I think there needs to be a hearty, main course-ish thing to eat. Such as steak, chicken, fish, sandwiches, pasta, eggs, etc. Whatever. But not without sides. In fact, I think my wife should write a move for the Lifetime Network entitled, Not Without My Sides.
So naturally, this has led to what J will and will not eat. And the "will not" list isn't as lengthy as everyone thinks. But once people think you're "picky" or "fussy," the label never -- never -- goes away. My idiot cousins still think I won't eat meat lasagna because one time when I was a kid I said I preferred cheese lasagna b/c that's what my grandmother (and mother) used to make. I absoultely loved their cheese lasagna and still do. So my mother assumed, in her early-onset dementia, that meant I hated all other lasagna. While I probably made a face about veggie lasagna, I never claimed to not like meat. And she knows this, because whenever she -- or anyone else in a 50 mile radius of my nose -- makes meatballs, I eat as many as possible. Yet a couple years ago, when I was about 30 or so, my cousins came to my parents' house for Christmas and brough two fucking lasagnas. One for everybody except me and one without meat because, "J doesn't eat meat lasagna." The hell?
Anyway, I'm digressing. Point is, people think I'm picky and more picky than I actually am. When in reality, it's simply that I know what I like and I like to have what I like a lot. You know? I'd eat the same five or six meals in rotation every week for the next thirty years if it was allowed. But if you do that, people look at you like you're a four year old who only eats chicken fingers, hot dogs and mac-n-cheese. (Three staples I'm not ashamed to admit I find delicious.)
Okay, digressing again. The whole point of this post was to share the fact that my lovely wife wants to be able to make veggies with dinner on a nightly basis. She loves veggies. Eats them like snacks. She'd eat a box of edimame or frozen green beans as a snack. She's weird. But she's hot, so I let her stay.
Me, I like me a main course and if I have to have a side, I choose a starch. Nice, fattening, carbohydrate-laden starches. Potatoes, rice, pasta. Whatever. Hell, I married an Italian woman, one would think I'd get a bowl of pasta at the start of ever meal followed by some codfish and then a main course of meat. Those Godfather movies were full of shit.
So I agreed, as I have in the past, to eat -- or at least, try -- anything my wife puts in front of me. I want credit for this, because I rarely say, flat-out, no, I'm not eating that. I'll try it or I'll at least tell you I once tried it and don't like it. At that point, you should back off. I'm 215 lbs and I will hurt you if you continue to press your luck. You can only force me to put things in my mouth if you let me put things in your mouth. Which leads us to my wife.
Wait -- well, you know what I meant.
What this agreement meant was that I'd be eating veggies on a semi-regular basis for the first time since my youth when my mother would withhold dessert from me until I choked down some broccoli. I remember the table being cleared and me still sitting there with a few stalks of broccoli or cauliflower or something else equally disgusting. And the Welsh Farms ice cream sitting there in the freezer, like a glorious finish line.
Anyway, I've already been making progress in the past year. I eat salads occasionally now, and that's all due to my wife. The first time my mom saw me eating salad I think she almost fainted. Or maybe she thought I liked salad all along. It's not meat lasagna after all.
So a week or two ago, I had some squash. It was okay, kind of reminded me of a sweet potato. A yellowish sweet potato. And it didn't taste like a sweet potato. But other than that, it was wonderful. I loaded it up with Smart Balance fake-butter and salted it and gobbled it down. It didn't bother me that much so I was pleased with myself. And Watersyne was thrilled also.
Then the next one was green beans. Now, I hate most green veggies. Which, I admit, doesn't leave much. But as I said earlier, I'd eat the same thing every night so this shouldn't be a problem. But my wife doesn't want to eat the same thing all the time and also doesn't want to make me special meals, so I have to branch out. So I ate a half-dozen green beans with dinner one night. I admit, it wasn't a large sampling, but I ate the damn things and my critics should be happy with that.
Then a couple nights ago it was pepper time. I cooked red, yellow and orange sweet peppers on the grill along with shish-ke-bob steaks and away we went. I ate several pieces of each color, not particularly enjoying them but also not vomiting. I felt like I'd done a good job and then Watersyne put the same number of pieces I'd just eaten onto my plate and said I should finish those and she'd be happy. So I did. I love her. What can I say? I'll eat salad, peppers and green beans for her.
And there doesn't even have to be Welsh Farms ice cream waiting for me at the end.
Labels: fatness, married life, The Great Veggie Experiment
