It’s Sunday. I open my eyes and I’m awake. What I mean is that I’m instantly awake, I’ve slept like a baby and I don’t need to crawl to my kettle babbling incomprehensibly to myself. I make a black coffee and decide to give the cream concept a shot. A small dash, something like a tablespoon I guess. It tastes unusual but do-able, something I could probably get used to. Then again I’ve tried avoiding sugar with my coffee in the mornings before and it only took a few days until I got used to it. The palate is quite fascinating that way.
On my outing to buy the papers I stop by the veg man. There is a small nagging voice in my head causing me to panic ever-so-slightly. I know that we will be out for both lunch and dinner today and that there will be socialising and I still don’t know how to deal with this diet in public. I sniff at the fruits but make a bee line to the veg and come out triumphant with two kohl rabi. This woman has a plan. I will have a substitute for those nachos/galletti/potato chips (that will be lurking at the evening’s BBQ) and it will be in the shape of a vegetable I quite like. Yes.
For lunch we’re out at what seems to be quite a posh affair. I wait nervously for the menus but we’re quite relieved to realise there is quite a choice and (with a few adjustments) we won’t need to stray. We both order a mixed seafood soup starter and fish for mains. While we’re waiting a waitress first brings a plate with butter and then comes around with a basket full of different kinds of bread. I wave it off and ask her to leave the butter. Usually I’m dipping bread in olive oil and balsamic vinegar and dunking it in my soup. My soul cries just a very tiny bit. I liked waving the bread woman off though. Wonder what she thought I’d do with the butter too. The soup is lovely – there is barely a cupful of it but there are clams, mussels, calamari, salmon, prawns, tomatoes, spring onion and parsley aplenty and I’m pleased. I’m having the seabream and The Boy orders Salmon. I ask how they’re going to be cooked and the waitress promises no oil, even though I didn’t ask her this question because I’m worried about oil. In any case, I’m pretty sure I can taste the oil when the fish gets there. It tastes juicy and none of the flavours are overpowering and it is exactly how I think fish should be cooked. Two thin slices of fish sit upon a smidgeon of mangetout, kohl rabi and carrots. I carefully move the 3 fractions of carrot aside and enjoy the rest.
Now, I have specifically asked for ‘no potatoes’. I was clear. And yet a small bowl of golden potatoes is presented to us. Like some kind of potato-phobic I, again, tell the waitress that we won’t be needing the potatoes. What I want to say is PLEASE take the potatoes away before they accidentally find their way into my mouth. But I don’t; and she seems to think that she is being generous by leaving them there and I feel that she almost wants to tell me that I won’t be paying extra for them. The Boy’s salmon is also delicious, although I can tell that the portion is far too small. He also diligently pushes his carrot ration aside. Out of a sense of decadence and because I can, I even taste a chunk of butter with my mangetout. Not sure if anyone shot me a look at that point. We’re both aware of the portion sizes here and know that we wouldn’t usually be satiated with what we’ve eaten, but somehow we’re both satisfied. We glance at the dessert menu but alas, no cheese platter.. we settle for coffee instead. I order my usual espresso and ask for ice and lemon. The Boy mumbles. I’m not sure what he’s said but suddenly, in slow motion (much like watching an accident), I come to the realisation that my beloved lemons are.. *shock* FRUIT… and I cannot eat them. I refrain from sneaking the slices into my mouth, even though Boy is sure I have. I pour my coffee sadly over naked lemon-less ice cubes.
I don’t get peckish until hours later and I’m in the ‘safety’ of my home at that point – I’m satisfied with a piece of goat’s cheese and some Red Leicester.
BBQ time! I’ve prepared a couple of Rib Eye steaks and some good sausages; and of course I pack the sliced kohl rabi and bigilla (bean dip). I’m not allowed to have any wine or other sugary spirits, but I can have vodka with diet drinks so I take those with me too. The evening goes well. I avoid the couscous, potato mash and carrot. I also avoid the offer of bread to go with my sausages. And I really don’t feel like I’m missing out at this point. Another day is over. I’m still bursting with energy, an almost unnatural energy that I only feel when I’m extremely excited. At 3 am I’m still not sleepy, so I sit at my computer and write…