Why I am fat :: 07:55 PM :: easyjetsetter

Hexagon I think the greatest blessing and, simultaneously, the greatest curse, my parents bestowed upon me during my upbringing is my palate. They were, like French parents, into letting me try anything I wanted. Wine, foie gras, seafood, whatever the grown-ups were having. They took me to restaurants they liked, and taught me it was impolite not to finish what was on my plate.

This would be ok if I were out on the hockey field every day, but as it is my idea of sport is getting up to change the telly (remember those days? Now I don't even do that) and my bottom grew and grew. My ass would kick J-Lo's butt in a fight any day.

At the same time, I would like to point out that, simply in terms of the quality of the food that went into creating it, it is a very expensive bottom, and it would be a frightful waste of money to get rid of it.

I also like the relationship I have with food. It almost makes up for the lack of any other kind of relationship. I think once people start dieting and obsessing about whether they should eat something it ruins their appreciation for good food over time.

My major childhood memories are based around excellent meals. Going shooting with my father and our ADHD labrador conjures up images of big steaming bowls of soup, mince and tatties in plastic bowls, and roast pheasant for dinner several days later.

Holidays in France are epitomised in piles of seafood, messy fingers and tasting mum's nasty "toenail juice" as I used to call wine (my how times have changed...)

School makes me think of slicing bananas into custard, or the lorne sausage in big floury buns, plus what me and my friends (I only had one or two) called "tea slammers" when the chapel bell tolled and we had to hurry.

What I miss about the States, apart from my friends (I made one or two more) and all my beautiful stuff which is waiting for the creek to flood in my wife's basement, is the food. I miss Pepper's Pizza spinach and ricotta calzone, I miss Cosmic Cantina's roasted veggie burrito, and I miss Elmo's cheese fries and milkshakes. I miss North Carolina Barbecue, the good shredded pork kind with the vinegar sauce, and the cornbread and the coleslaw and the okra and the shrimp and grits.

I do not, however, miss the portion sizes. In the four years I was there I put on two dress sizes. Forget freshman fifteen, it was the freshman 40. I look at pictures of myself in high school, when I believed myself fat, and then pictures of myself in college, when I actually WAS fat but didn't worry about it, and wonder what I was smoking.

I have since lost a dress size again, thanks to my fifth floor walk-up apartment and the astonishing weight of the guides I spend a large part of my week delivering and the fact that the Paris metro hates disabled people and is entirely composed of stairs.

However, I have a sneaking suspicion that it is also because I have reverted to my old eating habits. Now that I am no longer in the land of free soda refills, if I am not drinking alcohol, I drink water. And I drink a lot of it. I don't eat chips. Or fries. I've cut down my meat intake, because I don't have an oven or a grill and only steaks are any good done in a pan. I am on my own and so only eat when I am hungry.

I always preferred a big tasty fresh salad to boxed mac and cheese, but I fell into bad company in the States, where convenience food was easy. In France fresh produce is not the exception, it is the norm. Unlike in the States where it was easier to eat the pasta in the cupboard than crossing the busy highway to get to the grocery store for some lettuce. Making the effort for better food is the cornerstone of French culture. For example, if you look at any French blogring, at least half will be gastronomic.

Today is Friday, which means that the open air market two hundred metres away from my building has been going on since one pm. I stocked up on fruit and vegetables for the week, bought a raisin bread loaf, some flowers for the flat, and a roast chicken to eat over the weekend. On the way home I popped into the grocery store to restock on dried goods and dairy products. I got a braquette of spanish strawberries. I'm going to have some of my chicken with a head of batavia and my grandmother's dressing. Then I will eat the berries, with cream but not sugar. I will drink water. This is how I believe it is best to eat. Not stinting myself, but not stuffing myself either.

And carrying all that crap up the stairs didn't hurt either.