Add Copious Amounts of Butter
Two completely separate people with whom I have spoken recently shared the same anecdote: "I don't like to eat pork anymore, because when I was pregnant with my daughter I ate too much pork sausage."
It makes me wonder - is that a thing?
In the first case, the woman subjected to my inquiries had simply eaten Italian pork sausage too frequently. In the second though, the woman had literally eaten an entire pound of pork sausage, by herself.
"It was terrible," she told me, "I had stabbing pains in my stomach for two days after that. I told my dad, and he was like 'that's too much pork sausage.'"
"That's astounding," I replied to her, "even a dog knows to throw up when it eats too much of something and is in that much pain."
Ignoring the obvious, though unintentioned, insensitivity of my first reaction, I revisit the topic to wonder about the possibility of overeating to the point of later refusal. Is this a potential dieting technique? A sort of "food vaccination" in which a person consumes so much of a specific vice food that eventually they are unable to even stomach the thought of consuming it further? This plan is not without risks, though. Certainly, type II diabetes, but also a list of potential backfires- would this be effective as a method to weight loss, or would the initial consumption needs be so great that the "dieter" would forever be in a calorie overload? What if, instead of developing a distaste, the "dieter" instead developed a resistance to the distaste?
Though I'm not opposed to experimentation, I am skeptical that this plan would work for me. As a habitual over eater, my lifetime of experience has proven that my sweet tooth overrides my stomach, and both sweet tooth and stomach override my brain. Many the time have I eaten myself into an uncomfortable food coma, only to emerge wanting more. Even continuous overeating of the same food has proven ineffectual, I simply wish to continue overeating.
When Richard and I were younger, the 4-H program hosted a one day clinic at Belvidere Emmanuel School wherein community members with any areas of expertise could volunteer to teach a class to 4-H-ers.
Twice I took the same baby sitting certification class (a certificate that, though proudly framed, was actually quite useless), while Richard branched out into subjects like model airplane construction and cake decorating.
Each student in the cake decorating class needed to bring a giant tub of butter cream frosting to the class. So on Saturday morning, my mother whipped enough butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla together to fill an entire Tupperware layered cake carrier and took us to Belvidere to learn our respective trades. While I practiced diapering my doll Sezi (mandatory classroom material-to the embarrassment of both me and the doll, actually), Richard made roses atop a cardboard pizza tray; we all returned home anxious to forget about our day.
Fortunately, in the process of exiting the van, I was able to grab hold of the tub of butter cream and promptly took it upstairs and hid it under my bed.
What followed next were the most wonderful two months of my life. Every morning I would wake up, roll over to the side of the bed furthest from the door, and, laying on my stomach, dig out my tub of frosting, grab a handful, and enjoy.
Just thinking about it makes me want to go make some butter cream. "That's disgusting," some might say, "even animals..something...wouldn't eat that much frosting..."
Is it possible that maybe I developed an immunity to the resistance of frosting?
My friend Michelle has a fond memory of me, in high school, sitting in my bed spooning chocolate frosting from a tub of Duncan Hines. My mother came in, her face a mix of angry and appalled; my face a mix of feigned regret and chocolate frosting.
Another time, making dinner for the homeless at church, I indulged in a piece of pink frosted sheet cake left over from a funeral. "Carrie, that's for the homeless!" chastised Peggy Hill's Lutheran doppelganger. Whatever, I want some cake.
Is it also possible that I developed an immunity to the sense of shame our society associates with direct frosting consumption?
Though I'm not fiending for pork sausage, I can tell you just how a woman might go about eating a full pound of it. Just keep eating. If ever there was a time in your life when you could celebrate your own self indulgence without the criticisms of others, it's when you're pregnant. If fact, it's encouraged. "You're eating for two, do you want another spoon, to increase the speed of consumption?" "Yes," you answer, "absolutely I do."
Fingers crossed! Maybe you'll be lucky enough to develop a distaste!
It makes me wonder - is that a thing?
In the first case, the woman subjected to my inquiries had simply eaten Italian pork sausage too frequently. In the second though, the woman had literally eaten an entire pound of pork sausage, by herself.
"It was terrible," she told me, "I had stabbing pains in my stomach for two days after that. I told my dad, and he was like 'that's too much pork sausage.'"
"That's astounding," I replied to her, "even a dog knows to throw up when it eats too much of something and is in that much pain."
Ignoring the obvious, though unintentioned, insensitivity of my first reaction, I revisit the topic to wonder about the possibility of overeating to the point of later refusal. Is this a potential dieting technique? A sort of "food vaccination" in which a person consumes so much of a specific vice food that eventually they are unable to even stomach the thought of consuming it further? This plan is not without risks, though. Certainly, type II diabetes, but also a list of potential backfires- would this be effective as a method to weight loss, or would the initial consumption needs be so great that the "dieter" would forever be in a calorie overload? What if, instead of developing a distaste, the "dieter" instead developed a resistance to the distaste?
Though I'm not opposed to experimentation, I am skeptical that this plan would work for me. As a habitual over eater, my lifetime of experience has proven that my sweet tooth overrides my stomach, and both sweet tooth and stomach override my brain. Many the time have I eaten myself into an uncomfortable food coma, only to emerge wanting more. Even continuous overeating of the same food has proven ineffectual, I simply wish to continue overeating.
When Richard and I were younger, the 4-H program hosted a one day clinic at Belvidere Emmanuel School wherein community members with any areas of expertise could volunteer to teach a class to 4-H-ers.
Twice I took the same baby sitting certification class (a certificate that, though proudly framed, was actually quite useless), while Richard branched out into subjects like model airplane construction and cake decorating.
Each student in the cake decorating class needed to bring a giant tub of butter cream frosting to the class. So on Saturday morning, my mother whipped enough butter, powdered sugar, and vanilla together to fill an entire Tupperware layered cake carrier and took us to Belvidere to learn our respective trades. While I practiced diapering my doll Sezi (mandatory classroom material-to the embarrassment of both me and the doll, actually), Richard made roses atop a cardboard pizza tray; we all returned home anxious to forget about our day.
Fortunately, in the process of exiting the van, I was able to grab hold of the tub of butter cream and promptly took it upstairs and hid it under my bed.
What followed next were the most wonderful two months of my life. Every morning I would wake up, roll over to the side of the bed furthest from the door, and, laying on my stomach, dig out my tub of frosting, grab a handful, and enjoy.
Just thinking about it makes me want to go make some butter cream. "That's disgusting," some might say, "even animals..something...wouldn't eat that much frosting..."
Is it possible that maybe I developed an immunity to the resistance of frosting?
My friend Michelle has a fond memory of me, in high school, sitting in my bed spooning chocolate frosting from a tub of Duncan Hines. My mother came in, her face a mix of angry and appalled; my face a mix of feigned regret and chocolate frosting.
Another time, making dinner for the homeless at church, I indulged in a piece of pink frosted sheet cake left over from a funeral. "Carrie, that's for the homeless!" chastised Peggy Hill's Lutheran doppelganger. Whatever, I want some cake.
Is it also possible that I developed an immunity to the sense of shame our society associates with direct frosting consumption?
Though I'm not fiending for pork sausage, I can tell you just how a woman might go about eating a full pound of it. Just keep eating. If ever there was a time in your life when you could celebrate your own self indulgence without the criticisms of others, it's when you're pregnant. If fact, it's encouraged. "You're eating for two, do you want another spoon, to increase the speed of consumption?" "Yes," you answer, "absolutely I do."
Fingers crossed! Maybe you'll be lucky enough to develop a distaste!
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