I threw caution - and my health, it seems - to the wind and actually put potatoes into my mouth this afternoon.
I had to hide in my pantry to do so, because I was so ashamed. Ashamed that I was sneaking carbohydrates and afraid my children would find me with starch on my breath, I cowered in the darkness. Hands shaking, heart beating fast as I consumed some of Idaho's best.
While I was in the pantry, I found a renegade bag of potato chips that had fallen down behind my box of high-protein bars. Ripping into the bag with wild abandon, I tossed handfuls of the salty carbo goodness into my mouth, crunched with glee and swallowed them down. More! I needed more!
I was on a roll. Mmmm... rolls. Bread. Where was the bread? I needed bread! White bread!
Opening the door to the pantry, I squinted in the bright light. That was my downfall. I never saw her coming.
"Mooooooom!" huffed my teenage daughter, hands on hips and glaring at me.
"Muff a minute," I said, wiping potato chip crumbs off my shelf. Those of you that don't know what shelf I'm speaking of must be extremely thin females. And for the record, I hate you.
"Mom, you didn't!"
"Didn't what?" I replied in my best I-have-no-idea-what-you're-talking-about voice. I knew I was caught, so I alleviated my guilt in the only way I knew how. Attack mode.
"What are you - the Carb Police? Geez!" As this came out of my mouth, I suddenly felt a bit dizzy from a sudden switch in roles between my daughter and myself. I was about to say: "Who died and made you boss?" but restrained myself in time. That would be taking it too far.
"Mom, we talked about this, and you promised!"
I had. Promised, I mean. But I've found that there are promises... and there are promises. Personally, I think that promises involving food are not binding, much like a politician's promises. Of course I won't raise your taxes! Vote for me, I'm the low-carb candidate! Of course I won't ever let a carbohydrate pass my lips - ever ever ever! I did not eat that carbohydrate.
I wasn't always this way. Back in the day, my friends and I would actually go out to All-You-Can-Eat Pizza nights at our local pizza place. I say this with no shame. Everyone did it. We were foolish, young, and we had low cholesterol.
The world was our oyster, so we ate our burgers with the buns still on them. We recklessly dipped french fries in tartar sauce and consumed sugar carbs by the bajillions in our soft drinks.
Carbs schmarbs. Who cared?
Not us. We actually drove and consumed carbs at the same time. It was a simpler time, a guiltless era of doughnuts, crackers and white rice. We were invincible. Tacos came with flour tortilla wrappings around them, and we didn't care. We never read a label of ingredients to check the carbohydrate content.
Pardon my language here, but heck, back then they didn't put an ingredients list on food!
It's a miracle that any of us lived past the age of 17.
"Mom! Are those potato peelings in the garbage?"
"I can't believe you did this. Didn't we talk about this? Am I going to have to search your bedroom for Fritos again?"
"No. I already ate them."
"Moooooooom! You promised!"
I had no defense and she knew it, so I flicked an errant potato chip off my shirt and stuck my tongue out at her. Carbohydrate binging was a bonding experience in my youth with my friends, so I thought it was worth a shot.
"Hey, honey? How about some pizza?"
Freelance writer Pamela Troeppl-Kinnaird can be reached c/o firstname.lastname@example.org.[[In-content Ad]]