Week two.eight -- the horrors of freshly baked bread

There it was when I came downstairs this morning, a perfect, golden loaf of white (gawk!!) bread. Perfect. Still warm, crusty on top, beautifully aromatic, and, yes, calling my name: “Margaret, Margaret,” it wooed. “Cut me open. Come. Take. Eat.”
My husband made the bread last night. It wasn’t a problem last night. Last night my talking loaf of bread was just gluey gunk with yeast, a mass of white dough, not unlike the image my mirror has presented me with of late. (But, please, for your sake and mine, quickly erase that image.)
The challenge presented itself long after the bread had morphed into its own lovely breadiness. The challenge was hunger and morning and the knowledge that homemade bread spread thick with butter has always, and likely will always be, my comfort food.
What to do, what to do, what to do???

Well, here’s what I did. I had some organic plain yogurt with a dollop of homemade blueberry jam, a small handful of almonds and a titch of granola. In other words I let that loaf loaf on the counter, uncut, uncovered and complete until well past noon. And the healthy breakfast silenced the loaf.
It was a small triumph but I’m counting all the small triumphs. Being the second day of crash week, I knew my muscles needed a substantial lunch. Prior to turning 50 I might have cut a slice of bread, buttered it up like nobody’s business and consumed it standing by the cupboard. Then I would have had another, and another…
Post 50, I cut a thin slice and cover it lightly with cream cheese, I add capers, those weird pickle buds that have so much flavour. I slice a green onion length-wise and lay the bits across my single slice of bread and then, then, I add the crowning glory, lox. Thin to the point of transparency, orange like the flashing underbelly of a slap happy salmon surging up a turbulent stream, and beautiful beyond words, I lay the lox across the bread, I say a small prayer of thanksgiving, blessing the baker who lurks inside my husband, and I eat, savoring every single fabulous mouthful.
I believe there should be nothing I can’t have. I just have to slow down and enjoy it. I just have to take a little less, and add some more care to the  food I choose to put in my body. Rather than pushing bread into my mouth as quickly as I can, I now prepare something singularly wonderful. I may not always be able to do this but I did it today! And, guess what? That opened faced lunch salmon sandwich on homemade bread tasted a little bit like love.
More on crash week later. Oh, and calipers. Ashley did the old fat test on me yesterday. While I was stripped down to my skivvies and shivering she marked my body with X's like little kisses and then she measured. It was bizarre and shocking but there's no time to tell now. A salad is on the menu tonight with a small, exquisitely cooked, blood rare steak. The others may eat their steak with bread. As for me, I've already tasted delight and I’m good to let it pass on by…

M