Frankly Speaking

The day the pregnancy Gods took sugar away from me, I felt instantly gipped (sp?).

Gone was the excuse to indulge in just about anything that struck my fancy. Gone was the time-honoured tradition of everything you see consumed in the movies by pregnant women on raving hunger rampages. Gone was the ability to soothe a craving – be it for ice cream, pancakes, or anything else remotely fun.

Of course, being a rule follower, and already knowing the baby inside me is more important than anything (yes, including my need for daily chocolate), I have observed the gestational diabetes diet religiously. I measure my carbohydrates. I don’t drink juice. Desert has become a time of day when I sob alone, in the bathroom, waiting for my friends to be done and clear the dishes. So on. So forth.

As we close in on April, though, it’s time to make some serious plans for sugar consumption. I’m declaring the month of May my missing trimester. And the list of things I will eat in those weeks is growing by the day.

The top treats I’m planning on are below in no particular order. Feel free to suggest a few of your own. I don’t want to leave any sugary food unturned. And if anyone has comments about indigestion, weight loss, or the need to eat healthy over the long term – you need not reply ; )

• Ice cream, probably in Blizzard form, from Dairy Queen
• Chocolate chip pancakes from Angelique’s down the street
• Cupcakes from Cinnabon (they invented these while  I was off sugar, can you believe the irony?)
• Cheetos. By the bagful.
• Oreo cheesecake courtesy of Jordan. The promise of this has kept me going the past few weeks.
• Maple syrup. No need to pour it on anything. The syrup alone will do.
• Chocolate chunk cookies from Felix and Norton or Mrs.Fields (whatever happens to be closer at hand)
• Birthday cake (Kenny, expect something exceptional this year, and expect it to be the flavour of my choice. Sorry!)

Today I made muffins.

I wore my little apron, double wrapping the strings around the front (and getting a little boost from the need to still double wrap those strings despite my chronic inability to exercise these days). 

I calmly sourced ingredients from my well-stocked pantry (wondering to myself when exactly it became so well-stocked).

I tossed everything in my very favourite baby blue earthenware bowl (purchased not based on size, material or necessity – but because I saw one on Oprah).

I popped the tray in the oven, and 20 minutes later, I very casually put everything away and strolled out of the kitchen.

Which is about when my heart skipped a beat. I baked muffins. I. Baked. Muffins. And not only did I bake them – but they actually look just like they should.

I baked muffins without any tears (from me or my muffin consumers). I baked muffins without becoming completely hysterical. I baked muffins without seeing flames inside the oven, setting off the smoke detector, or forgetting to add something critical (like flour, eggs, sugar or on one most unfortunate occasion, all three).

This – in itself – felt nothing short of miraculous. But if you thought that was a change of pace for little old kitchen-deficient-me, get this: On Wednesday, I food processed.

You heard me, boys. I. Food. Processed. It’s been three years since my aunt gave me a very fancy dancy food processor with a note that said “You won’t need this now, but in 20 years you’ll be glad you have it.”

It’s been two and a half years since I decided to prove her wrong and, determined to be glad right away, embarked on what has now become known as the Avocado Incident.

It’s been about three minutes shy of two and a half years since I put the food processor back in the box, and tried to pick up the shattered pieces of my avocado-covered life.

Then, on Wednesday, armed with my soon-t0-be-vintage copy of Katie Lee Joel (yes, of that Joel family) cookbook, I dusted off ye old chopper and produced a veggie dip like nothing you’ve seen before. I did this without any major injuries, unnecessary bleeding, or post-chopping ceiling scraping.

And now we have muffins too.

I don’t have a disaster story to tell. I don’t have any harrowing tales to share. I don’t even have a quirky or witty comment. I have nothing. Except a large vat of dip (I always triple recipes, it’s the only culinary skill my mother managed to pass on), a dozen perfectly shaped muffins, and a nagging question in the pit of my stomach and on the tips of my usually-keyboard-happy-fingers: If I can cook, what exactly am I going to write about from now on?

Stay tuned… when I figure it out, so will you.