Chowmageddon

I continue to enjoy this all too brief respite from The Pigs that early fall provides. It actually occurred to me that I should try to use this food-breather to get my weight down a few pounds in preparation for the Chowmageddon that starts with Thanksgiving and doesn’t let up until after New Year’s. If I can roll into our annual National Olympics of Power Eating a bit on the light side, perhaps the inevitable five pound gain won’t be so onerous.

I keep wondering why we are so prone to pig out during the holidays anyways. I don’t think it’s just that we are tempted by the standard-bearers of the season, the pumpkin and pecan pies, the dizzying arrays of Christmas cookies, those little cocktail wieners that wiggle their way into every holiday party.  Or that the shorter days and falling temperatures make us crave warm, carby comfort food. Or even that it’s family tradition, you know, how Thanksgiving isn’t really Thanksgiving unless you have your mother’s green bean casserole with cream of mushroom soup and crispy onions. It’s something more elemental. In my opinion, it’s a case of pure entitlement.

Okay, entitlement is a big political buzzword these days, but I’m talking about something slightly different. We don’t demand sweet potatoes with tiny marshmallows as if they were our American birthright along with Social Security, Medicare and endless episodes of Reality TV. It’s more that if we can’t have our guilty pleasure, if we have to eat something <gasp> healthy, like roast turkey breast without gravy, we feel slighted. Duped. Cheated.  It’s not fair. It’s not right. It’s not the holidays.

I am not immune from this phenomenon. As much as I worry about all the fat and sugar-laden fare I will encounter between late November and early January, I have to admit that I have prepared some of those dishes – and will do so again. In other words, I have been the agent of my own demise. Why am I so attached to a Norman Rockwell picture of holiday celebration, an image that’s not only idealized but, if we are honest, completely unrealistic? And while I’m asking questions, tell me, why does apple pie, oozing sugar in a buttery crust, say Thanksgiving in a way that a simple baked apple does not?

But, you say, apple pie tastes better than a plain apple. Well, taste is a subjective thing. Since last June, I’ve been running an experiment – I’ve stopped eating foods that are sweetened. The sweetest thing I eat now is an orange with breakfast. The first thing I noticed was that my appetite calmed down. Way down. It was quite astonishing how much the simple lack of sweetness in my diet decreased my desire to eat. After four months of this, not only have I stopped craving sweets, but when I occasionally do eat something very sweet, it seems odd and over the top.

I suppose that back in the bad old days, when food was scarce and a person might have to subsist on nothing but turnips for extended periods, the occasional bit of something sweet (or creamy, or salty) was cause for celebration. Perhaps even something deserved, if you consider the harshness of the rest of their lives. Our prehistoric ancestors may have passed that sense of entitlement onto us and we still live it, especially when the first cold weather descends, even though we can order Pizza Hut Stuffed-Crust Pizza and Cinnamon Sticks any night of the week.

Well, that’s a nice story, but it doesn’t solve my problem, does it? My first idea, to lose some weight before the holiday madness begins, may be the best strategy for now. Chowmageddon is a mighty force, stronger than kryptonite even, and I’m not taking any chances.