Cook Books and Diets and Non-Confessions
Just so you know: I did not buy two cook books when checking out the cook book shop I mentioned in my last post. I totally did not. It just looked like I did, what with me going in the shop with two books less than I came out with. I also did not spend 10 Euro in that chocolate shop that I accidentally passed by when walking to the station. No, I did not. Someone must have stolen my 10 Euro and put a little bag with chocolate in my hand while I wasn’t watching. I swear it must have been like that.
You may also want to ask why the ugly word „diet“ is actually being mentioned in my blog. Yes, I know it’s an ugly word and I try to stay away from both the word and the actual meaning of it. Because diet and chocolate shops usually don’t mix very well and if forced to choose I’ll take the chocolate shop without even needing time to think about it. Basically I do believe that diets are bullshit. You can read this book or this book (or both) and know what I’m talking about.
But. I’m actually on a diet. Not a self-inflicted one, but a doctor-inflicted one. I came down with a mild case of gastri-entritis-something, meaning I wake up in the middle of the night with unpleasant stomach pains and you wouldn’t necessarily want to be the person to use the bathroom right after me. But it’s a mild one, so you don’t have to worry. It just means that I should only eat white bread and mashed potatoes. I figured chicken broth might be okay, too, but that’s only me guessing.
So now I’m going to head straight for bed with the delicious smell of spinach and garlic pizza (my husband ate it, not me!) still lingering in the apartment.
And I totally did not eat a piece of dark cardamom chocolate tonight. I totally didn’t. Really. I swear.