Week three --WineWhine

I have yet to post a definative number. I don't yet have a photo. What I have is this:

I chose to go away this weekend for a writing workshop and to see some friends. It was out of the city, a new experience, heightened as they are by fresh faces, fresh ground, the excitment of being "out and about." And it was good...
Like all journey's coming home should be the best part. And, yes, it was.
I saw those dear, dear faces my husband, my three children through the fog of the pasta pot, perking away, white sauce simmering on the stove, all creamy and caloric. Now how can one, coming off a long and difficult highway, complain when they walk in the door to supper already made? How can one? No one must be gracious, peel some vegetable, place them on the table and join their family in whatever they have prepared, be it cream, flour, butter, white pasta, or some other rich and thigh inflating concoction.  And so I did. Both biting my tounge and salivating like a wild animal (yes, it is possible to do both of those private mouth acts at the same time) I tried to heed my husbands advice to "just take a small amount." And, to some degree it worked. I ate mindfully if not entirely happily. I would have been all right, too, if I hadn't kept adding wine to the already potent mix of pasta and deliciously flavored fat-sauce. I will say no more except to say tomorrow is another day. Tonight, with Mother the fat Nazi back,  it will be poached fish and steamed beans and if you're good, very very good, a side of wild rice. Balance, balance, balance and no one ever said it would be easy. Tomorrow is the last day of crash, three sets, endless repetitions, and a promise to step on their loathsome scale and come in with an "end of week three" weigh-in. More later from Sabotage City and the Filler' up Vineyard,

M