I woke up with a hangover this morning. Between the peanut butter balls and chocolate-decadent-kick-me-in-the-head bars, I am in gastrointestinal distress. The roof of my mouth is raw. I'm pretty sure there is a hole there from too much sugar. I've tried seeing it. I angled a compact under my chin with my mouth wide open in front of the bathroom mirror.
My consolation today is I don't have dessert binges too often anymore. Some families ski, camp, or play board games together. Our family's hobby was having dessert before bed. I held to the conviction that it was never too late for dessert. At 9 or 10 at night one of us would ask, "What's for dessert?" And I'd whip up a pan of brownies or a double batch of chocolate chip cookies.
I think I became a dessert freak from growing up with two older brothers who devoured everything. You had to be quick, or you wouldn't get any. To get my fair share after I made something, I resorted to hiding it. But I blew my favorite hiding spot when my brother caught me kneeling in front of the couch with an apple pie.
I became more creative. I'd hide pans in the coat closet, in my mother's lingerie drawer, under the pile of clothes in my room. Sometimes the best spot was the most obvious. One humid summer I hid a rhubarb cake in the bottom oven. We only used the top oven. I forgot it was there. That fall my mom opened the door to put in a roast and found a pan of purple and green fuzz.
I don't hide food anymore, but sometimes I still go on a short-lived bender. Today I'm nursing the effects with lots of water. If you've been junking out on sweets and have gut rot too, don't feel bad. The cure is simple. Just quit. We need to hoist our five-pounds-heaver legs back up over the side of the wagon. We might get the DTs, but we'll make it. Onward ho, my friends...
Photo from www.beauty-healthcare.blogspot.com