We’ve officially passed the 90-day mark of my insane experiment. In case you’re not up to speed, I’m going the entire year with no sugar, no sweeteners, no gluten and no starches in my diet. (No kidding.) And while I could sit here and say I no longer miss any of the aforementioned items anymore—well, that would be a bold-faced lie.
Every second of every minute of every hour of every day is a struggle not to go to Krispy Kreme. Or dive head first into mashed potatoes. Or inhale my weight in pretzel bread. Whoever said it takes 28 days to get over an addiction or craving has obviously never given up pecan sticky buns.
Since I wrote my last blog, I’ve faced a few uphill battles. For one, my birthday was a few weeks ago. You try to find a baker who can whip up a keto-tastic cake sans sugar or gluten—usually it’s one or the other. But I was successful in my endeavors. One chef created a cake with beet juice to give it an air of sweetness. The other used a monk fruit substitute. Both cakes were completely legit—albeit each had a denser quality than your garden variety cake—not unlike a brownie. Last year I distinctly remember scraping frosting off the top of my BDay cake and shoveling it into my mouth. This year, self-restraint, almond flour and cream cheese prevailed.
Going out to eat has become an adventure in itself. I actually have to do reconnaissance now so that I can figure out a menu plan (of attack) and not be tempted. For instance, any Mexican restaurant offers up a sizzling plate of fajitas. Meat and veg = M2 approved. I simply take the tortillas that are wrapped up in foil and hurl them back at the server. Unless they’re nimble, I’m usually able to hit them squarely in the face. My friends then explain the situation of my stupid diet and why I’m so bitter and hostile. 9 out of 10 servers are empathetic. The other one always calls their manager over and claims battery. Selfish.
90 days in and my taste buds have radically changed. In fact, I think I’ve done them irreparable harm. I can taste the sweetness in toothpaste now, for Chrissake. I popped a TicTac the other day and found myself going into diabetic shock. Some people are germaphobes. Well, I’ve become so insistent on reading labels for added sugar, that I often find myself yelling in grocery aisles when I stumble across it.
When I read about Trump threatening to close the Mexican border, I started to panic. A shortage of avocados? Oh, hell no. Guacamole has become a mainstay of my diet. I eat it on the reg. (Read that: daily. Sometimes twice. Hell, I’ll even throw an avocado in to my pea-pod extract and seaweed vanilla smoothie. Yes, it’s a thing. No, I don’t need your commentary.)
While we’re on the subject, you know what else I can’t get enough of? Blue cheese. While I’ve always been a fair-weather fan of that fetid fromage, now I purposefully go out of my way to find restaurants that offer up giant wedge salads. Half a slab of iceberg lettuce and half a pound of bacon? Yes, please. Just the thought of eating one creates a Pavlovian response.
I’m proud to report I haven’t cheated—not even once, but lemme tell you, if someone offered me a Dirty Chai from Parisi Coffee while I was feeling vulnerable, there could be trouble. I still miss frou-frou coffee drinks more than life itself. I’ve actually had dreams where I was guzzling a Caramel Cloud Macchiato. True story, a friend of mine had the audacity to order one the other day right in front of me. “Doesn’t that sound dee-lish?” she asked. “I’ve never tried it. Let’s both get one!”
I took a leftover foil wrapper of tortilla shells from my coat pocket and chucked it right at her head. (After a couple days, they had hardened up nicely.) I took her out in one fell swoop—and left with my green tea before anyone could figure out what had just happened.
Maybe someday I won’t be as cranky without sugar, but, clearly, today is NOT that day.