A week into my annual spring cleanse and I’m cranky as a 5-year old who doesn’t like her new princess outfit—the one she picked out for herself. Somehow, I can’t convince myself that what I am doing is good for me anymore than I can cultivate the saintly half-starved look of much of Boulder, where I’m willing to bet a full quarter of the population is currently engaged in berating their bodies with icky herbs and uncomfortable high colonics in the name of perfect health or food allergy relief or that niggling 2 (count them–TWO) pounds. After 7 days of beans, twice daily detox teas, kefir and six kinds of salad, coupled with apples and power smoothies, nuts and raisins, oatmeal, not to mention every veg from asparagus to kale, and whole grain bread and tortillas and seed crackers, my palate feels like it’s been beaten into submission. Worse, I feel like I’m punishing myself.
I definitely don’t feel sexy.
This is not how I like to eat or experience food. I want pleasure, the thrill of discovering something new, immersion in the body and the sensate world.
During last year’s cleanse, by this time I was blissed out—feeling happy and light—and yeah, sexy and saintly. Not now. I’m counting the days until I can crack a bottle of bubbly and toast the city-dwelling boyfriend over butter-cream laden cupcakes before noon or a calorie-busting order of oiled and salty French fries.
Besides missing out on the pleasure of food and the satisfying naughtiness it can bring, I feel the same way I do when I’ve had a fabulous first experience at a restaurant, only never to be able to replicate it again. You know the feeling. You go back, order the same Wild Boar Ragu put you this close (!) to coming, only this time it’s watery or weak or generally just tasteless. Every. Single. Time.
I’ve done enough of these spring rituals to know each one is different, but still, that doesn’t’ help me as I eat black bean tostadas made with sprouted corn tortillas, fresh salsa, red onion, avocado and lime that I’m honestly just not that into.
So, in order to avoid feeling like I’m watching my diet strapped into a chastity belt because I’ve landed in the culinary equivalent of boning jail, I make chocolate pudding.
It’s simple: ripe avocadoes, a few spoonfuls of fat free Greek yogurt, a splash of organic milk, raw agave, cocoa powder, and kosher salt.
I spend some time slowly licking spoon after spoon filled with creamy chocolaty mounds–my mouth open, at last, to sin. As the pleasure of transgression washes over me, I feel slightly better and slightly more human.
Maybe it’s just the fat calming my brain, but tonight I am feeling not only kissable, but ready for another week of teas and juicing.