I'm tired. I have a headache. Moving around the kitchen putting away dishes gets me winded. I think this diet is kicking my ass. My system is totally unaccustomed to the dramatic reduction in all of those yummy fats I used to eat with abandon. If I don't make a point of eating something every couple of hours, I find myself collapsed in a heap on the couch like a pile of mashed potatoes. That's one of the hardest things about the Swank Diet so far: ensuring I have enough "right" food on hand at all times so I can quickly and easily make a snack. (Despite his claims, I don't believe Dr. Swank when he says, "A glass of skim milk is a great pick-me-up." In what universe?? A Twix bar is a great pick-me-up, thank you very much!)
My husband and I are on Day ?? (my notebook is all the way downstairs and unless Capt. Nap or his nimble assistant Squeaky trots right up the stairs with it, I won't be telling you what day we're on). Let's call it Day 7. There's been no straying. In that notebook ALL the way downstairs are details of everything we've been eating, and apart from last night, the recipes we've tried have been quite tasty.
Last night's Fish Bake is one we probably won't repeat. It was just so-so; not horrible, but not fantastic enough that I want to make it again. But the Savory Halibut, the Pistou, the Fish au Chablis have been good and have provided enough for us to have leftovers, which is key in conserving energy. It's been fun to get in the kitchen and make these new recipes, as well as get some fun gadgets and cookware, but if I had to do it EVERY night, well, that might be more than I'd be willing to tackle.
On the menu tonight: Puffy Omelet with Creole Sauce. If I have the energy, I'll also make corn muffins. Also if I have the energy, I'll shuffle downstairs and retrieve that notebook so my next update will be more accurate. Oh, damn, I have to shuffle downstairs eventually. We took (okay, "we" didn't) out the desiccated Christmas tree this morning and the floor/hallway is strewn with needles. Vacuuming that mess is one job I don't trust to the other love of my life, Roomba. If only the cats would get on board with doing some housework. They could make a game of it, and I think they might have fun! Trouble is, they just look at be balefully whenever I run the idea past them. Kind of like this:
|"You want me to do WHAT?" - Squeaky the Cat|
Ms. CrankyPants (aka Ms. HeapOfMashedPotatoes)