Someone came up to my office with a slice of pizza. I didn’t want to get into a long conversation about diabetes, so I forced myself to eat the pizza.
My favorite is feta, I think. With a simple dressing of oil and apple cider vinegar, the saltiness of feta really pops in a salad.
What good salad cheese am I missing?
I hate to admit it, because this thing looks like a rabbit’s wet dream, but the salad I made this weekend tasted fucking good. A simple homemade dressing on fresh spinach and Swiss chard from the first farm share distribution of the season.
Does that look good to you? Then make the damn thing!
- olive oil
- apple cider vinegar
- spinach, chopped bite size
- Swiss chard, chopped bite size (cut the stems and ribs out — they’re tough)
- chopped up toasted almonds
- feta cheese crumbles, not too much
- a little bit of grilled chicken
You want amounts? Forget about it! Figure it out yourself, I’ve already given you something that tastes good!
What makes this salad are the almonds and feta (the saltiness of the cheese). Don’t screw it up and substitute.
Cynthia, my partner in eating crimes, joined me in eating eating three small pizzas at two of the best places in pizza heaven New Haven, CT. Modern Pizza, then Frank Pepe. Tried to smooth things out with extra doses of Humalog.
Fuck you very much, Stoneyfield.
How much are we supposed to think about ourselves?
I’ve always thought that people who obsess about themselves are conceited, and that it wasn’t a good thing to be conceited.
But having diabetes turns that whole notion on its head.
There’s nothing I do (or don’t do) that doesn’t have implications for my health. I wish I could forget it just a few hours, but I can’t. Even the act of not thinking about living with diabetes for a few hours is thinking about diabetes!
This only matters because I have to change every. single. thing. about how I’ve lived life until now. Everything.
Fuck you, diabetes.
I’d like to consciously uncouple from my diabetes. But I can’t.
No, getting a gold star for being a good diabetic isn’t like being a gold star lesbian. I’m giving myself a gold star because I traversed some hairy areas without falling into old behaviors that would have led me to over eat. Or eat crappy food. 24 hours and counting!
Seems kind of lame to be celebrating something that I should have been doing all along, but the glucose meter read 151 this morning, which is as low as its been in weeks. Sad, I know.
I deserve a treat!
This time I’ll treat myself to NOT treating myself.
Glucose, how low can you go, you tricky bastard!