There’s a lovely, virtuous feeling that comes along with a good, healthy breakfast. I imagine it’s probably something like the feeling a good Catholic gets from confession. Light and pure and like the rest of the day is manageable because your body has absolved you temporarily.
Take this morning, for example.
I had a little bit of cottage cheese (something I’ve only recently been introduced to after a lifetime of instinctive revulsion) and a green banana. Green because ripe bananas are squishy and slimy and gross, of course. And a cup of black coffee.
Well, the coffee doesn’t really count. I drink black coffee as a matter of course; light, sweet coffees are desserts and treats, not morning fuel.
Anyway, I feel more upbeat and energized right this second than I have in weeks. It can’t just be the food (and the sleep, since I’ve actually gotten some lately). I’m sure those things are part of it, but I know they aren’t the whole story.
I’m concentrating on one thing at a time though, and unluckily for you, that one thing today is my breakfast.
I discovered something in my narcotic-induced fugue after I had my wisdom teeth out. I discovered that I have been taking food for granted for a very long time. So, since I had nothing better to do than sleep and stare at the wall, I spent some time thinking about how I eat and what I eat and what I like. I also spent some time thinking about moments in my life when I felt healthy and strong and capable.
Interesting stuff there.
I’ve never been a food = comfort person. I don’t have strong emotional ties to much in the way of consumables. I don’t know why I didn’t form those links; I had the grandmother who cooked and baked miracles in her kitchen, and the stay at home mom who fed us all every day with sit-down dinners and bagged lunches. You’d think, coming from there, that food would have been central to my formation. But not so much, really.
I like stuff that tastes good. I love rich, hearty, old-fashioned cooking (like Rhett cooks, for example). But I really just don’t care, moment to moment, what I eat. If you ask my favorite food, I’ll stare at you and blink until I come up with something that sounds good to me at that moment, or that I know I like and haven’t had in a while.
I really just don’t have a favorite! I eat, I don’t die. That’s about as far as my relationship with food goes.
What I do have a relationship with is how I feel after I eat. Red meat too many days in a row makes my joints ache. Too much grease makes my stomach upset and gives me the runs (sorry). Too much dairy makes my nose stuffy and my chest tight and can also give me the runs.
In short, if ever there was a person designed to be largely vegetarian, it would be me.
I hate that overly-full “stuffed” feeling you get when you overeat.
I’d rather be a little hungry than a little too full.
I’d rather eat bread than just about anything, except maybe pasta.
I prefer seafood to meat. I like chicken better than pork. Actually, chicken is the only fowl I like at all. Not a turkey fan, and certainly not a fan of game birds. Ick. I don’t like any game meats, come to think of it. Deer, elk, antelope – I’ve had them all and liked none.
I know this is a random post, dull as milk, but bear with me. This is a revelation, and I like my revelations.
See, I don’t really know that there’s any such thing as eating “right,” but I’m starting to think that maybe there’s such a thing as eating right for me. If I tried to feed my family on my preferred diet, I’m fairly confident they’d starve to death. But maybe I need to pay more attention to how I feed me.
Anyway, it’s an idea to chew on, if you’ll pardon the unforgivably bad pun.
Maybe, while my brain is engaged with my diet, it’ll come up with something a little better for you the next time around!