Dinner Time

I'll be the first one to admit that I'm not a foodie. My categories of reacting to food are pretty simple: what the hell was that?; I like it; and Oh My God I Think the Earth Just Moved. What particular ingredients or techniques lead to these reactions, I cannot say. I suppose this makes me gourmand rather than gourmet. I can live with that.

Upstate New York has a strong "go local" ethos. We grow our own produce, manage our own dairies, produce our own meat, are home to Wegman's, the mecca of food stores and you can't walk down the street without tripping over countless dozens of "Made in the Finger Lakes" labels. We like local.

Despite this availability of good, locally-grown food what's been challenging for me is feeding myself. Like most of the women in America, I spend at least half of my life on a diet. Unlike most of them, I actually could stand to lose about 40 pounds. American women have terrible relationships with food, always defining our days by whether we were dietarily "good" or "bad." Its a codependancy of the worst kind.

When I moved here, I thought it would be a good time and place to focus on those pounds, show them who's in charge and buy some new pants. It would, I reasoned, be easier to "be good" if I didn't have to worry about feeding my boys.

Hah.

Since I live alone, it seemed expedient if not in fact prudent to build my food lifestyle around the mass availability of Lean Cuisine and Healthy Choice entrees. Quick, easy, calorically controlled. What could be bad about this?

Boxed entrees, for those who are unaware, are remarkably homogeneous. The picture might show macaroni and cheese or Asian potstickers, but in the final analysis, it all tastes like...calorically controlled, microwave-ready food out of a box.

The hell of it is, after weeks of steady box-diet that included the occasional donut or cheeseburger when I couldn't stand it for another minute, I gained 10 pounds.

Granted, the basic weight-loss formula is calories in should be less than calories out. I get a lot of exercise. I do those things "they" tell you to do: park far away, take the stairs, go for walks and bike rides. The plain truth is that I've consistently gotten more exercise these past three months than at any other time in my life, all while enjoying my steady diet of boxes.

I decided, recently, to get serious about it. I planned, portioned and counted everything for two weeks. I had the numbers down to the smallest calorie count that is reasonable for my body and made myself run up and down the stairs at work for no good reason other than to burn those calories. Heck, I even used fat free half 'n' half in my coffee which, if you know me at all, you know is a real sacrifice on my part.

At the end of those two weeks, I stepped on the scale and...nothing. The needle didn't budge. To say I was annoyed would be a gross understatement.

What I decided, after a lot of reflection, was to get rid of the damned boxes. Instead, I would experiment with eating real food. I created some ground rules for this experiement: no boxes, bags or cans. The exceptions were dairy and bread/pasta because I don't own a cow, and while I love baking bread it isn't feasable for me right now. This meant I had to give up the safety-net of my boxes, throw out the carefully-controlled 100-calorie snack packs, not drink diet cola (I did cheat twice on this one), pitch the boxes of breakfast cereal and really pay attention to what I was doing in my tiny kitchen. Beyond those rules, I could have anything I wanted so long as I made it myself. Cookies? Sure--go bake some. Garlic toast with that pasta? Absolutely: melt some butter and mince a clove of garlic.

For the past week, I've cooked everything I've consumed (with the exception of a couple of lunches when I opted for a salad from the cafeteria). Risotto with shrimp, asparagus and bacon. Chicken and cous cous. A to-die-for pecan coffee cake. There were some culinary earth-moving moments in there, though I can't tell you why.

This morning, with a sinking stomach, I headed for the scale while mentally reviewing everything I had eaten this week. Real butter. Cheese. Chocolate chip shortbread.

Before I stepped on the dreaded thing, I thought about how I'd been feeling this week, both mentally and physically, and the answer was: better. I feel unquantifiably clearer, stronger and more energetic. This realization was fogged somewhat by the knowledge that I'd been eating real butter, but no matter. The damage had been done and I could always go back to the boxes next week if this one had proved disastrous.

With my eyes squinched half-closed, I approached that square white beast in my bathroom. I shuffled onto it, holding my breath, mentally preparing myself for a return to portion-controlled swedish meatballs and rice cakes with endless gallons of diet pop.

In a while, I'm going to go and do laundry. On the way home, I will stop at the market to stock up for next week. Ratatouille sounds good. Ratatouille with some garlic bread. Maybe I'll go crazy and bake a nice batch of maple scones for next week. And I have this jar of Finger-Lakes made wet walnuts (which is acceptable because the entire ingredient list is: walnuts, NY maple syrup) that are just begging to be baked in a crust with a nice wedge of gooey cheese.