pissing off vegetarians, lusting after food, hating my weight

I am reading Anthony Bourdain's book "Kitchen Confidential," and the following quote amused me:

Vegetarians, and their Hezbollah-like splinter-faction, the vegans, are a persistent irritant to any chef worth a damn. To me, life without veal stock, pork fat, sausage, organ meat, demi-glace, or even stinky cheese is a life not worth living. (page70)

This reminded me of a time in my youth, when my mother accused me of being a hedonist. Being a smart-ass teenager at the time, I thanked her for the compliment.

I think enjoyment in life is essential. I'd be a horrible Buddhist, because I like to feel the delight in life, even if it is accompanied by pain. I don't think I am being selfish if I need to sit down with a book and a glass of wine, and take a break from the whining and the cooking and the diapering and the washing.

I think there are things in this life worth enjoying, and I don't think it is a bad thing to enjoy an amazing crème brulee, a wonderfully seasoned roast, a smooth and seductive glass of port. Even the perfect little M&M is okay in my book.

Yet my feelings about my weight always come around to ruin the party. Trying to put on skirts that are cute in the Platonic ideal, but look stupid on my butt, can be really depressing. Catching a reflected glimpse of my double-chin in the oven door as I check on my homemade gluten-free eggnog cake has a way of making me want to drink the rum glaze straight out of the pan.

I want to lose weight. I want to be the weight I was 3 years ago. But I can't starve myself, for a number of reasons. As a nursing mama, I have to have some cognizance of what I eat (yeah, I know, nursing is supposed to make you lose weight -- but that is not the case with me), and losing weight rapidly while nursing can release toxins that you don't want the babe to get. But I also have so many issues with food, besides simple enjoyment. I eat when I'm happy, I eat when I'm bored, I eat when I'm sad. I eat when it's snowing, raining, windy. I eat when there are squirrels on the rooftops, or when I'm watching "Top Chef," or when I think about losing weight. Food is a reward, a penance, a solace, a necessity. It is what I struggle with, what I adore. It is my abusive lover.

Added to all that drama, I also love to cook -- I love when a recipe comes together (to misquote The A-Team). I love to enjoy the fruits of my labor. My need for gluten-free, corn-free, shrimp-free food makes cooking a necessity (Chef Bourdain would hate to have me in his restaurant), if I want to eat. I am not the type to starve myself. And honestly, if I became a vegetarian, there would be little else for me to eat. The thought of life without butter is, personally, depressing.

But diabetes mellitus and heart disease run in my family. So does high-blood pressure and asthma. So many things can be triggered by being overweight. My knees already hate my guts. I know that if I want to live a long life with my family and friends and loved ones, I need to get on the ball.

But life without stinky cheese? Hell, no…