After such a decadent pie I’ve decided to self inflict an extreme detox — a word I refused to let into my vocabulary, every-day thinking, and entire life. Detoxes are for those who eat in excess, who are health nuts, for people who feel bad about the tiniest pin point of margarine (eww, yuck!) on their 52 multi-grain, vitamin packed, more nutritious than a raw kale, beets and spinach combination, inch of cardboard toast each morning. I’m just not one of those. I’ve been known to eat an entire pint of Ben and Jerry’s for dinner and then go for dessert (ahem, churro chex mix, how could I not?).

I’m one who violently opposes running, who flees from the slightest hint of a juice cleanse, and shuns (by ripping into a thousand shreds) the $5 gym membership flyers that daily plague my mailbox. I refuse to be guilted into any kind of regimen (ice cream of course, the obvious exception). But pie and ice cream and churros have begun their eternal devastation to this body, and right before bathing suit season too. How rude. (If you are the super breed kind of woman who was born a permanent size 2 for your entire life no matter what you intake, I loathe you. Also, if there is such a thing as a metabolism transplant please sign up. Gaining weight is awesome! hehe)

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I’m sitting here watching football wondering why I’m not doing something more, well, interesting. So here I am telling you about lunch because seriously, it is way more riveting than RG3 and the usual spandex clad man smash fest plastered across the television on Sunday afternoons. As I have made it pretty obvious with brown butter, mushrooms and chocolate goods out numbering any green things on this site I thought it time, seeing as you are probably trying to down your daily intake of calorie free lettuce bowls, to give you something to look forward to.

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For the past week my mouth has been drowning in soft foods. I guess I don’t need to specify “with ice cream”, as you all know me well enough by now to know that is what I mean. Ice cream with an occasional jello-whipped cream parfait top off to be even more specific. My wisdom tooth excavation was last week and as expected the IV was the worst part. You see I’m a little (read: more than any other person you will meet in 500 life times) needle phobic. My husband makes this the main point of his argument against the litter of kids I would like to have, but I digress. We are still in negotiations on what that number will be. For now, we will just say litter (I’m winning).

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Ah. The dreaded zucchini. I’m totally a two timer. If you keep up with the baby food section then I’ve already told you about my hopes and dreams when it comes to feeding my kid. Yes, I know it’s wishful thinking. I know in a matter of months I will be faced with the toddler years in which kids learn that the word “no” is not just something mama and daddy know how to say. And that protests in which plates are pushed off edges of high chair trays, noses are turned away at their favorite foods randomly without notice, and that the inner parental struggles of do I force him or fix three other dishes to see which will be tolerated by the households smallest and pickiest mouth will all be the norm and an every day reality.

But today, he is still eating everything. Including zucchini. Which makes me our household’s pickiest mouth. You see, I hate zucchini. Squash, actually. Ok, fine. I should just say vegetables. And I’ve been struggling with the fact that soon baby will realize I’m feeding him all these healthy green things while I snack on ice cream and oreos and pringles. It’s only a matter of weeks, months, until he figures out I’m a sham.

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I’ve made a pact with myself to not gratin. They warm my heart and soul. They make my insides tingly with delight. They are filled with cheese and cream and butter, perhaps the trinity of food goodness, and they make my hips grow far too big for the pair of fat britches I keep on hand just in case. Crash diets, much sobbing and depression ensues. Of course, things like this become even more of a problem after you flaunt (ha ha, I’m so funny) your post-baby bod around like “look at me, I’m only 25 pound heavier than I was a year ago!” It’s sad. So we don’t gratin.

It’s okay. I’ve come to terms with it. We’ve settled into a nice non-gratin dinner routine and up until this summer I was doing just fine not eating creamy, cheesy goodness. You see, I bought myself a little “congratualtions on the completion of your pantry. Now stock the shelves with all the cookbooks you’ve been wanting but have patiently held off on purchasing for lack of room” cookbook. It has almost 400 pages of seasonal recipes from market to table by the incredible Suzanne Goin. Folks in L.A., how I envy you and your Lucques. Anyway, her gratin had only 1 tablespoon of butter and 1/2 cup of heavy cream, which I mean, is totally do-able and non-hip enhancing since I refuse to do anything resembling a jog. Walking at a slow pace as if my 5’8″ self had the stride of a 80 year old 4-foot hunchback is more my speed as far as exercise goes.

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