My dad likes tamales. He never gets them
where he lives. Last time
I bought them from a normal grocery store.
They had lard. This time
I bought them from Trader Joe’s,
a specialty store. No lard.
He prefers the lard.
Don’t we all?
Bacon grease, butter, shortening, lard, fat
makes me feel Buddha.
I ate a lot of fat this weekend.
I tend to do that when people are over.
I tend to do a lot of things I might
not normally do on my own.
Willpower a distant relative I blatantly ignore.
Cheese, cheese and more cheese. Guacamole,
chips, more cheese, more guac, more chips,
pasta, wine, beer, fat.
The more the merrier.
Donuts too. Sunday morning.
“It’s Sunday, don’t worry.” My sleepover friend said.
“Every day is Sunday for me,” I reply
with my traditional coping chuckle.
“Have two,” she said. “Maple bar and chocolate with nuts.” I said.
Donuts are Buddha. The kids think so too. Who doesn’t
love donuts? Who doesn’t
love fat? Ingesting it,
I also got into a bathing suit a few times this weekend. More fat.
First time, a two piece. Second time, after more cheese, I decided
to squeeze into my one piece.
Hides more. Or does it? I wish I could
stop eating fat. I was always thin my whole life except for that time I lived
in Italy for 6 months. I ate
a lot of fat then. Gorgonzola, focaccia, profiterole.
I love fat. Not the rolls cascading down my stomach.
Not those. I can’t love
body fat. As hard as I try, I can’t.
Sunday afternoon, after the donuts, I decide
to not eat after 5pm.
“That’s all you have to do.” She said.
“Don’t eat after 5pm, you will see the difference in a week.”
Okay. I can do that, I thought. I know
all the tricks, silly rabbit. I know what to do.
Monday arrived with a vengeance.
The eyes of cheese upon me. I love