Wednesday, 11 November 2009


I was set. I was not going to give in to temptation. I was not going to let the triggers push me so far as to start again with the bad bad stuff. I was determined. You know I was. In my rage I even devoured a couple of innocent chorizos. I knew, that way, I would stay away from pasta, ginger breads and those darling little chocolate cakes they push in your face in the que at Marks & Spencer. But there will always be someone evil to lure you away from your path.

Unsuspecting where my night was heading, I took the bus to my preggie friend, who, in-between, has successfully had a, you know, baby. I was expecting a night of tuna salad and a cup of tea. But at her house, a friend of hers sat on the sofa munching chocolate, a man introduced as 'oh, Caroline, I think you guys have the same thing'. Of course that set up for a long discussion about food, doctors and poo-tests. The man finished with the words 'I was on the diet for two years, but it didn't work, so now I eat everything'. He took another piece of chocolate and purred as it melted in his mouth. I sat silent, stunned. He went up to the stove, poured a pack of spaghetti in a bowl of cooking water, simultaneously stirring some weep-inducingly, well-smelling, buttery, creamy, saucy thingie. He piled the pasta high on a plate, practically throwing a whole grated parmesan on top, and poured the buttery sauce in a glittering, gleaming stream of goodness over that magical tower.

I stared at the golden spaghettis hanging out of his mouth, shining moist with butter... I heard every bite as if magnified by a thousand and the sound kept echoing in my ears, each sound overlaying the other into a symphony of complex structure. Noticing my staring, trance-like stare, he asked if maybe I wanted some? I swallowed, my throat dry. No, no I couldn't. My diet, I had to keep to my diet. I forced myself into the bathroom where I sat hyperventilating until I heard the man slam the door shut behind him. Only when he was gone, did I dare to peak my head into the kitchen again.

The room was empty. My gaze was magically drawn to the stove. One single pan stood shining spookily in the otherwise quite dark kitchen. I floated up to it and as if sleepwalking, I lifted the lid and discovered a small heap of the remaining pasta. Without thinking I just grabbed it and shoved it into my mouth. The poison was working its way to my blood and it felt gooood. It was as if some spirit demon took possession of me, I threw all cupboards open, pulled out all bread I could find, including a pizza, and just started eating my way through like a mad person.

OMG. How many weeks of wheat/butter/sugar celibacy had I just destroyed? I didn't care. I left as if walking on sunshine. I fell asleep as if on ecstasy. I slept blissfully. And then I woke up. My head spinning, my stomach turning, nausea spreading through my entire body. I had my first wheat hangover.

1 comment:

  1. Du e väl världens sötaste! Knarka vete. Ja, det finns värre saker, värre hangovers. Själv är jag smått beroende av ciabbatta med gruyere ost, skinka och dijonmajonnäs från Vasastans ost. När man är lunchhungrig begås de största synderna.

    Vem var mannen? och var var preggie friend? Var du hemma hos dem själv? är det här i själva verket en mardröm? eller en pleasure dröm?

    Du får göra som alltid efter en natt av fest. Massor av vatten och salt. :)