Slim to None Page 4
Classic Lasagne
for the sauce
1 clove garlic
1/2 minced onion
olive oil (couple of tbls.)
1-1/2 lb. ground beef
2 tbl. parmesan cheese
2 small cans tomato sauce
2 small cans tomato paste
1 tsp. each: oregano, salt, pepper, basil
Lightly brown onions, adding garlic (be sure not to burn garlic, allow to turn golden), add beef, brown, drain. Put back in stock pot with tomato sauce, paste, spices. Fill sauce cans with water and add to sauce. Stir well, bring to boil, reduce heat to simmer for one hour.
for the filling
1/2 lb. grated mozzarella cheese
1 small container cottage cheese
1 small container ricotta cheese
1 egg
dash nutmeg
1 tbl. parsley, chopped
salt and pepper to taste
1 package lasagna noodles, cooked, drained
Grease 13 x 9 baking dish. Put layer of sauce, 4 overlapping noodles, layer 1/2 the cheese mixture, layer 1/2 the sauce, then layer of noodles, cheese, sauce. Sprinkle with parmesan cheese. Cover with aluminum foil for all but last 10 minutes of cooking time.
Bake at 350 degrees for 30 minutes.
Self-delusion is pulling in your stomach when you step on the scales.
Paul Sweeney
One Half-Cup Sour Grapes
I gaze into the mirror, stripped down to my sensible bra and flab-trapping panties, and all I see are waves. Undulating waves. Something that can be so calming under the right circumstances. Like nice, invisible sound waves conveying your favorite song. Or gentle ocean waves, viewed while sitting on the rooftop deck at the beach house, absorbing a sunset, Mai Tai in hand. Indulging in your favorite goat cheese and artichoke dip with some freshly-made crostini. And of course steamed shrimp, the tang of beer in which it was steamed, the gentle marriage of Old Bay and horseradish and ketchup (grandma’s recipe) feeling so decadent in its simplicity.
But I’m not feeling calm, because these waves I’m beholding are composed of something far more permanent than that which courses across the dark ocean’s surface with the regularity of a heartbeat. They’re waves of flesh, veritable breakers. Make that a tsunami. And as I tug and pull and coax my Flexee girdle over the mountainous terrain of my Paul Bunyan thighs, my generous behind, my stomach that overlaps like a layer cake on steroids, I can’t help but wonder: how the hell did I turn into such an ocean of a woman?
After donning all the necessary accoutrements of figure camouflage, including a jacket to cover my Jell-O arms and large, chunky jewelry to distract from everything below my neck, I take one more glance at myself in the mirror. Only to be drawn immediately to my telltale chinny chin chin. I still remember the first time I detected a hint of a double chin. Until that point, I didn’t think I looked all that bad. I mean, granted, I’m definitely lugging around enough of me to constitute at least another small person, which is a depressing thought. But it’s always seemed to be spread out in an agreeable enough manner across my body, like a nice homemade huckleberry jam slathered generously on a piece of rustic bread, rather than a harsh glob of shortening thwacked into a mixing bowl. So nothing stood out as grotesque.
But the shadow of a double chin did leave me feeling unsettled. I mean, who has a double chin but fat folks? Well, also people whose jaw lines are conducive to chin repetition, I guess. One look at my family photo album will tell you that no one carries the double chin gene, however. And I admit, while I noticed that little excess lumpage sort of flapping there like a wet nurse’s overused breast, I didn’t heed the signs. Like that little pea-sized growth one wants to pretend isn’t there, the one that can be a harbinger of much worse. Ignore it and it doesn’t exist, right?
You might expect someone who eats rich for a living to have at least a double chin (and perhaps double wide hips as well). But for a long time, that wasn’t the case. I was able to manage to eat out most of my meals and eat well without getting too fat. I suppose after I hit thirty, that became harder to do. That was the bellwether that ushered in not only a double chin, but obviously, now, its more lethal sister, the triple chin.
Oh, the triple chin. A secondary heart-shaped bracket of flesh at the base of the chin, the point of which functions like a giant arrow at a roadside strip joint advertising Girls! Girls! Girls!, pointing in lurid corporeal neon to the wobbling flap of facial flesh hanging like a slab of meat in a butcher shop. Three Chins. Sounds like a dish at Wing Chow’s, my favorite little dim sum spot in Chinatown. Even my vast levels of self-denial can’t spin this one into a positive attribute. Nothing good can come of one’s countenance taking on the appearance of Howdy Doody’s hinged mouth, the cruel after-effect of multiple-chin syndrome.
As I stare into the full-length mirror, the harsh light of my bathroom illuminates me as if I’m a suspect in some sort of interrogation. Where were you on the night of your gluttonous binge? It mocks me. Did you really think you could live on pate and crème fraiche forever without suffering the consequences?
Honestly? Yes. I did. I never thought I’d see the day I’d become what I’ve become. It seemed impossible to fathom. And it’s so unbecoming. I’m a gourmand, not the fat girl.
Okay, to be fair. I’m not exactly the Creature from the Black Lagoon. I have beautiful, straight shoulder-length hair, with the shine and coloring of black lacquer. And my eyes are, oh, I’ve never thought to describe my eyes. I’d say they’re honest. Yep, I have honest eyes, the color of brandied mushroom sauce. Who wouldn’t want to have eyes like that? Though I know in our society, those attributes are vastly outweighed (there’s that word again) by my size.
So now what? Here I am, thirty-eight years old, the doyenne of dining in Manhattan, a woman whose entire being centers around food. And yet if I continue to eat, I won’t be able to have an entire being that centers around food. I’ll be that dog dropped off on the side of the highway, left to wander with no destination, no purpose, no kibble. Huh. No kibble. How ironic is that? I end up losing weight because I’m kibble-free, having consumed too much of the stuff throughout my eating career.
Weary of this assessment, I drag my feet into the bedroom. There, in the corner is what William and I jokingly call my fainting chair: an overstuffed crushed-velvet lounge chair, whose welcoming deep brown coloring reminds me of a beef reduction stock I make and freeze every autumn when the weather turns chilly. I could go for a hearty beef stew made with the stock right about now. It might fill up this sense of despair I’m feeling.
I ease my girth into the lounge chair, propping myself up on the egg yolk-yellow satin pillow (I fear if I actually fainted into the chair, I might well break off a leg or two of it in the process). I toy with a tassel as I weigh my options. Weigh my options. Good one. I’d laugh at my little play on words, if it weren’t so completely not funny.
I realize my choices are this: lose weight, keep my job. Not lose weight? Lose my job. Either way there’s dramatic loss. Okay, fine, and losing weight has an upside to it besides not giving up my beloved profession. I’d also be able to wear my Spanx. Maybe delve into the collection of smaller outfits gathering dust in my closet, arranged in an arpeggio of sizes from a relatively diminutive eight all the way up to a double-digited none-of-your-business.
And not losing weight? All I can see are downsides. Downsides to being up on the scale. Marvelous. But aside from the "me factor" in this equation, is the bigger picture. I have aspired to being a premier food critic since back during the lean days, when we lived in Europe, when I realized how very much food is an integral part of the human condition. Here I always thought it was just me who was all about food. But it was there that I realized in many countries, food is life. And life is food.
To celebrate when I finally landed my fantasy job, William
surprised me by preparing—all by himself—a feast of my favorite French foods: escargots with garlic butter and a splash of cognac; langoustines (flown-in overnight from Brittany), sautéed in their shells with butter and garlic and a hint of malagache curry; potatoes daphinoise (a little overpowering with the langoustines, I know, but he was going after my favorites); and haricots verts sautéed in shallots, all paired with a vintage Dom Perignon. The meal couldn’t have been more perfect: conceived in love (sounds like a baby, doesn’t it?), dining by candlelight, Edith Piaf on the stereo. Cognac even got his own china plate to dine alongside of us.
This is what I know: food is the common thread of all humans. The quest to improve upon any existing type of food, to create something so beyond merely satisfying—this is a universal mission. I feel complete when I can be a part of this greater good. When my efforts poke and prod chefs to do better, when I can be the conduit to the public, to say "Hey, wait’ll you try this!" Conversely, to save them money and tell them, "Don’t bother. You’d be better off staying at home than eating the swill" if a restaurant falls grossly short. To have a hand in someone’s celebratory moment—that silver wedding anniversary dinner, a fortieth birthday celebration, well, you just can’t put a price tag on that privilege.
It’s as if all I’ve worked toward my whole life was to attain this one goal: My years of cooking with my grandmother; dabbling in foods throughout Europe, working in those shoebox kitchens in the French countryside, so hot I’d lose three pounds a night from sweating; all of those tiny little reviewing gigs I had in local weekly papers; freelancing for every magazine imaginable. And then: the Mount Everest of the food critic’s world. Mine to appreciate for the treasure it was.
Until now.
I suppose there are those who fall in the eat-to-live camp. Those sad souls who don’t even notice the taste of their meal; rather they view it as a linear progression to get from point A—hungry, to point B—fed. I’m probably proudest when I can lure one of that ilk over to the live-to-eat side: to convert someone who had been so preoccupied with the mundanities of life that they’re unable to relish in the simple joy of a meal, the conviviality involved in gathering family and friends and food and wine, really, the recipe for a happy life, if you ask me. When I’ve succeeded with this, I’ve accomplished my goal.
So, then, I’ve answered my own question. The choice is I have no choice. I must lose weight. And fast. Six Months to Slim. Ha! Take that for a headline, you smarmy New York Post. Six Months to Less-Than-Morbidly Obese is more like it. I always pictured "morbidly obese" as someone who needs a crane to get them out of their apartment, because they’re too large to fit through the doorway. I fit through my doorway quite well, thank you. But with the less-than-generous actuarial scales (scales! Those miserable bastard devices), if I’m really honest, I think it’s probably true that I would be considered morbidly obese.
Now it’s a question of how to diet. I know, I know, this is something about which there are vast reams of information. I’ve just never paid attention to any of it before. Someone in my position just doesn’t do that. Or doesn’t think she needs to, despite mounting evidence to the contrary. Like Flexee failure and such. Dieters view food as the enemy. But guess what? There have been times in which food has been my very best friend. Food has been there for me when my life has been at its worst. How can I abandon it now, then? Food is not only a crutch for me, it’s a damned wheelchair. It’s a prosthesis, a replacement limb. And I don’t exactly know how to dismember it, frankly. Even if it’s become cumbersome and useless.
I get up out of the chair, knowing what I have to do. I walk to the kitchen desk as if headed to the gallows. I open my laptop and pull up the email from Jess with the phone number she sent to me after hearing about my meeting with Mortie yesterday. And with one brief phone call, I make my date with destiny.
* * *
Two hours later I find myself precisely where I’d totally not like to be.
"Mrs. Jennings! So glad the doctor was willing to squeeze you in this afternoon. It seemed...urgent," the receptionist greets me. "I’ll just have you fill out this paperwork before the doctor sees you."
She hands me a clipboard with a stack of forms on it, and I get to work. All of these medical questions are making me feel sick: numbness, fatigue, seizures, heart disease, kidney problems, trouble breathing. Sheesh, all of these serious conditions they’re asking about. Mine pales in comparison. So much so that maybe I should just go ahead and leave. Good ol’ Doc Crenshaw doesn’t need to be bothered with little ol’ me. Or not so little ol’ me.
Just as I ponder slipping out discreetly, a perky middle-aged nurse calls out, "Abigail Jennings?" and since I’m the only poor slob in the waiting room, she stares straight at me, curling her finger to beckon me to follow her. Which I do obligingly. A sheep being led to the slaughter.
I know what’s next. We both know it. Only I suspect she secretly relishes this, while I dread it with the same sort of anticipation one would if sending their only child off to war.
"Now, if you’ll just hop up on the scale." She points to the torture device and actually smiles as she says this. What I’m hearing, however, is this: "Now, if you’ll open wide and just let me carve out your tongue, we’ll be done!" And I don’t think hopping is an option, frankly. I picture the springs blowing on the thing, setting off alarms and all sorts of mayhem ensuing.
I feel like a dog about to be beaten with a newspaper for pooping on the carpet. My frowning eyebrows implore the nurse to change her mind. I swear I’m tempted to whimper.
"Is everything all right, Mrs. Jennings?" she asks.
Surely she jests. Is everything all right? Sweet God in Heaven, nothing could be more wrong at this moment in time, short of imminent mutual destruction by the world’s super powers.
I point to my shoes. "Can I take these off?" I choke out.
I wonder how much added weight my combined skirt, sweater, traveler’s jacket and Flexees will contribute to the overall poundage, and debate if it’s worth the humiliation of standing stark naked in the inner sanctum of the doctor’s office just to shave a few grams off the grande totale. I wipe my sweaty palms across my skirt as I debate my options.
"Mrs. Jennings?" The nurse stands there, authoritative, with chart in hand. I notice her pen is red. This seems deliberate, her wanting to mark in bold, scarring color my Mount Kilimanjaro-of-a-scale-total.
I draw a deep breath, exhale as much air as possible, and take a baby step onto the scale. So much for that exhalation, because suddenly I’m breathing so fast I fear I’ll hyperventilate. Which wouldn’t be so bad, because at least then I wouldn’t have to be awake for this moment of deep shame.
I squeeze my eyes shut and hear the clanging of those metal squares as the nurse adjusts and re-adjusts the balance, which will certainly not be in my favor. No scales of justice here.
The nurse starts to announce my weight in a voice as loud as a squad of cheerleaders belting out support for the home team: Two, four, six, eight, Abbie’s weight is really great!
"Shhhhh!" I hiss. "If you don’t button your lip, I’m warning you, I actually own a set of Ginsu knives and I’m not afraid to use them! Keep that number to yourself!" She doesn’t know I mean I’d use the knives only to menacingly cut through aluminum cans, like they do on the infomercial; they’re really useless for cutting meat, anyhow. But that’s okay, because my veiled threat seems to shut her up. She goes through the nursing motions with me, taking my blood pressure (did she actually whistle when she saw how high it was?), pulse and drawing blood. Vampire nurse.
"Go ahead and put on this gown and the doctor will be in to see you in a minute," Nurse Perky says, now looking a little intimidated. She exits the room, leaving me to my hospital gown. Which is mighty snug, I find, and leaves a gaping uncovered section of my back end, which would be somewhat tolerable if the exam table was up agains
t the wall or something. But poised as it is, smack in the center of the room, leaving its occupant to lay in wait in mortified splendor, I have no choice but to look the fool. It’s one thing to be overweight, dressed head-to-toe in slimming black like a trendy Manhattan mortician. It’s downright humbling to be stripped down to this threadbare excuse for a baby diaper and left to shiver and await a virtual stranger’s gaze upon all that I’ve become.
I hear a knock on the door. For a minute I think if I remain silent and still, he’ll go away. He knocks a second time, and then a third. Finally he cracks the door and peers in.
"Oh, gosh, come on in!" I feign ignorance and play the hayseed, as if I simply hadn’t noticed his knocking. Golly, gee willikers!
"Mrs. Jennings?" a hand reaches out to me and I divert my thoughts from my meandering mind to see before me this magnificent specimen of man-dom. Deep, saturated midnight blue eyes, thick, inky-black hair that gently waves across his head. Note to self: remember to kill Jess for recommending her hottie doctor to me. His smile is so dazzling, I expect to see a few asterisks pop up before my very eyes to emphasize the glean of his snow-capped teeth. And he has dimples. Which I think tend to make a man look more sincere, don’t you? No man with dimples would lie to a girl, is my supposition. Except that his stunning good looks merely serve to remind me of all of those men who treat fat chicks like me with disdain. Or who simply see right through us. I hate that.
"Doc" Crenshaw doesn’t look so much Doc-like as he does god-like. Like some sort of Grecian God of Pulchritude or something. A quick memory-jog of high school mythology doesn’t stir up a recollection of any such god, but if there was, this man is certainly descended from him. I look at his name, inscribed against his crisp, white doctor’s jacket, and see the name Dexter embroidered in blue. Dexter Crenshaw. Dex. I heave a sigh.
"So, Mrs. Jennings, to what do I owe the pleasure?"