The brain wants gain without strain. It’s no mega mystery that everything we do stems from the thinking of our insides out. Yet, we may quickly forget the hyperlink bridging intestinal with an intellect that affects our body as a whole. We know we require food of some sort to stay alive. As babes, we got what they gave us. Adults can’t feign victim with the same conviction. Yelp doesn’t give greater stars for what’s less likely to kill you or even remotely rob your gut of the pill-popping and paycheck bleeding medical future we’ve outlined for far too many. I, for one, would love some rating app to get into the healthy competition of messing with the entire industry of eating. I’d prefer my age be questioned as youthfully well lower than its reality long into saggy boob stages. Let’s all nosh prosper on par with Vulcan verve. My proposal is a collectively congnisant nutrition ambition to thrive every day we’re alive.
To eat is a necessity, but to eat intelligently is an art. ~La Rochefoucauld
My upbringing was coated in experiential effects. Food was more than what we ate three times a day as a family routine in the Kuhlman household. My father was a farmer of cultural inclusivity. Taken in retrospect, our home was a gallery of gastronomy. In a single season, we would consume copious civilizations, whose cuisine leanings fostered my mother’s cooking. The traditions hit our plates to palate with plentiful rounds of Mexican tacos to Middle Eastern baklava or heavily veggie-stoked Italian spaghetti sauce to Russian pashka. But, One Thing Leads to Another. Maybe the universe was trying to Fixx me way back when. Not unlike a lighthouse signaling a rocky shore nearby, warnings lived all around me. Neighbor parents had candy dishes at the ready whenever us kids camped at their place, although the rotund bellies volunteering the goods should have been a baby red flag. Absent from my informed conception, a foodie addiction was soon born.
Even if you fall on your face, you’re still moving forward. ~Victor Kiam
The temptation to feel good with food was more than a default for me. For one thing, I’d been raised to connect with other people through the sustenance of foodstuff. Any social event mirrored feeding time. It didn’t matter if an Eastern-European attaché was visiting our dining table or we were globally galavanting guests at an international soirée. Ingestion was a compassionate ally for all terms of societal coupling to secret late-night benders. It seemed unnatural to be with others, not to mention myself solo, without some sort of fertilizing of the belly. So, as I began to unwind my parental leash, an edible dependency has already solidified. Similar to the magnificent molding capacity of Mascarpone frosting, voracious vittles had sorted their means as a vital provision. Without end, I could barely conceive anything short of a hoggish appetite. The funny feature was how little too much or bad food pleased my parentals. I, lonely, was falling prey to repeated dietary destruction.
You may have to fight a battle more than once to win it. ~Margaret Thatcher
The enterprise of cravings is a ravenous beast. My ups and downs juxtaposed with a roller-coaster make it seem flat. And the topic is far less amusing. It’s a checkered history of self-esteem wreckage meets self-worth spectacles. One can only take so many conversations of high blood pressure warnings or cholesterol risks, while parked at a laptop most hours of a workday. I suspect my recent doctor chatter of colonoscopy, cysts, diagnostic mammograms, and menopause has been the catalyst for a tiny uptake in my attention to detail of my blubbery bulges. The twinkle in my eyes when the scale told me what I’d felt up during my morning masturbation was a nutrient all unto itself. Losing six pounds was not the solitary dream I was counting on, but the side effect toasted me. I was on to something. Lightbulbs still need to be turned on. One must switch to the realization they alone control all the power needed. It’s time to keep the “go” in goals going.
Let food be thy medicine and medicine be thy food. ~Hippocrates
My nuptials to nourishment is fairly new in the truly thorough sense. I’m serene in this honeymoon phase. I play these self-made advertising schemes in my head to keep the point operational. “This is your brain on good food” reminds me that when I look at the vibrant green leaves of a yummy source of vegetarian grub that my sexy score soars, compared to a crap Mickey D’s Big Mac attack. A stream of vegan teases have courted my tastebuds back into the love of colorful cauliflower mash, sweet potatoes roasted with Brussel sprouts, and my long lost love of anything to kraut about. The Plant Paradox has been an uber useful audiobook with website full of supplemental tangy recipes that challenge my former trips to the isles of plastic-wrapped groceries at nearly every market store, healthy or not. Admittedly, I’ve been here before. Maintenance for our bodily houses is as consequential as the structures we’re watching face flood, fires, or else on tv. The tides of time will separate meltdowns from merit.
Our bodies are our gardens, to the which our wills are gardeners. ~William Shakespeare
May alimentary nutrition be thy lustful chow and choice.