Tag: eating

2210: Live to Eat

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“Some people eat to live, while others live to eat. What about you? How far would you travel for the best meal of your life?”

The Daily Post, February 7, 2016

Some time ago, I wrote about how I’m not a foodie. Things haven’t changed all that much, but I mention this now because it’s relevant to the Daily Post prompt for today.

For me, food is something I very much enjoy — hence my weight problems, to be perfectly frank — but not in the same way as people who really enjoy food enjoy it. No, I’m not one who is keen to have a delicate bouquet of flavours exploding on my tongue as I take a miniscule mouthful of something that looks more like a piece of modern art than an actual meal — I’m someone who likes to have a big ol’ gobful of something that tastes good, and preferably a lot of it. If the thing that tastes good is also reasonably not-awful for you, then so much the better, since if there’s one thing I learned since starting Slimming World, it’s that there are a lot of tasty things out there that you can eat completely guilt-free.

I was particularly conscious of my feelings towards food when Andie and I were watching the recent series of Masterchef: The Professionals. I found the programme a bit tedious, to be honest, because every episode was very similar to the last, and very little of the food actually looked appealing to me. These chefs — who I’m sure are at the very pinnacle of their craft — were taking things that would have been delicious in their most basic forms, then complementing them with bizarre crap like “pea puree” and baffling combinations of herbs and spices. Even on desserts. If there’s one thing I can’t abide, it’s putting weird combinations of herbs and spices on desserts. Rosemary is for lamb in a pinch — though I prefer it without — not cake or ice-cream.

The most peculiar thing I think I’ve eaten and actually enjoyed was when my friend Tim — who emphatically is a foodie; you can tell this by the fact he has a favourite truffle oil — made a Heston Blumenthal (I think) bacon ice-cream for us to enjoy one evening. I wasn’t entirely convinced that this was going to be nice when it was first posited, but then I thought about it — and thought about how nice bacon is with sweet things like maple syrup and pancakes — and realised it might not be that bad. And indeed it wasn’t that bad at all — indeed, I’d go so far as to say it was genuinely nice. Would I have it in preference to a nice bowl of Cornish vanilla slathered in chocolate, caramel or strawberry stickies, though? Of course not.

So in answer to the question above, then — how far would I go for the best meal of my life? — I guess I would have to say “the kitchen”. Or, at a push, “the pub” or “Tesco”. Because although I enjoy my food, I can’t say it’s something I seek a life-changing experience from. And I know from experience that no amount of Michelin Star-winning chefs will make me enjoy nouvelle cuisine or whatever you’re supposed to call that bollocks now; give me a nice hearty chilli, or a lump of pork with some nice potatoes, or a rack of lamb, or anything that just makes you feel full and happy to eat, and I’ll be satisfied. And you can keep your pea purees.

#oneaday Day 714: Run, Fat Boy, Run

It’s back to the gym tomorrow and, all being well, sticking to a relatively healthy eating plan. No, we’re not following a “diet” or anything, but we are going to cook a lot more rather than picking up convenience foods and nomming on whatever takes our fancy. It’s always good to kick off the new year with something like this, even if it doesn’t stick — the new year is, after all, a time for good intentions and all that jazz.

For me, it’s a topic that plays into one of my very many neuroses. I hate being fat, but unfortunately I enjoy the taste of food about as much as I hate being fat. I loathe my own body, but find myself eating things when I get depressed or upset or just for the hell of it at times — a habit which hasn’t exactly been helped by the enormous amounts of food we acquired over the Christmas break. If it’s there, it gets eaten, and it’s often hard to resist.

Why do I hate being fat? Fat people are supposed to be jolly, after all. Well, there are many reasons. First of all, I hate seeing myself in photographs and seeing that I’m bigger than I think I am. Given that I usually see myself from the inside out, it’s perhaps understandable that I have a slightly distorted view of my own body, but I still hate seeing myself in photographs. I hate seeing myself generally. I hate the way clothes hang on me, I hate it when clothes are too tight or I can’t fasten them up, and I hate it when I see photographs of myself from a few years back, when I thought I was fat, but was actually a fair bit slimmer than I am now.

I also hate people’s attitudes towards fatness. I follow a few people on Twitter who are otherwise lovely people, but have seriously discriminatory attitudes towards obesity. I’ve bitten my tongue a few times when reading what they had to say about fat people. I know they perhaps don’t mean it in the way I’m reading it — and since they haven’t met me face to face, they have no way of knowing what I really look like or how I feel about it — but it still stings a bit sometimes.

Along the same lines, I really hate it when random strangers feel the need to point out that I’m fat. This hasn’t happened for a while, but it really hurts when it does. The last time it happened, it was shortly after I’d split with my wife, and I was sitting in a park in Southampton by myself just trying to have a bit of peace and quiet. Some prick decided to start on me with his friends. It was all I could do to turn the other cheek and ignore him — something I’ve trained myself to do from a very early age, as I’ve always seemed to attract bullies. I take small comfort from the fact that I’m a better person than a dickhead who insults people he doesn’t know, but at least he wasn’t fat.

This may all sound like self-absorbed whining, and it may well be. The fact is, though, it’s not as if I haven’t tried to do anything about it. For a goodly proportion of last year, I was running, going to the gym, doing situps and pushups and all manner of other stuff. It had a small but relatively noticeable impact on my body, but I always seemed to “plateau” after a certain stage, and it gets a bit demoralising to continue on that path without seeing visible effects. I know it’s not just about the effects you can see but also those that you can feel, but it’s always far more satisfying to see a substantial dent in that belly than just to feel a bit better.

From this week onwards, then, I’m committing to a long-term plan — gym three times a week as a bare minimum, and running on the days when I don’t visit the gym as a filler activity. I’m going to put myself through the Couch to 5K programme again since it’s been a while since I did any endurance running, and I’ll certainly consider doing something like the BUPA 10K again. Andie will be joining me for the gym activities at the very least, and hopefully our making “proper” meals each day will help also.

Whether or not there will be any noticeable effects remains to be seen, but it’s better than doing nothing. Doing nothing just leads to a downwards (or, more accurately, outwards) spiral.

First day back at the gym tomorrow, then. If you want to follow what I get up to, then feel free to follow me on Fitocracy.