Have you ever seen Survivor? Sometime around the fifth day the tribe members start having food fantasies. They spend hours going over what they would choose if Jeff Probst magically disappeared and was replaced by a 7-11. Hot fudge sundaes, french fries, chili dogs. No one ever mentions tabouleh, say, or that precious quinoa all you glutenistas constantly go on about. It's always an Outback commercial when the ranting starts.
This is my pregnancy appetite right now. Foods that are never appealing seem like crack right now and old standbys that could be desert island choices make my stomach turn thinking about them. Except stroganoff. It would make the cattle farmers happy to know that I could eat stroganoff every day of my life and wake up looking forward to the smell of mushrooms and meat cooking.
Nick tries to remind me that jalapenos all over my chili tots (yes, tots, french fries are gross, I could not explain this current logic, sue me) is not going to make me happy six hours from now and I am painfully aware of how thin the walls of our apartment are, but I am like a grizzly ripping apart a salmon when my brain and gag center finally get my esophagus to agree to let something past. I chewed a mouthful of muesli for about three minutes the other day but could not get the throat to say yes. It wanted watermelon.
One of the strangest cravings I get is for Armenian food. My DNA is partly authentic Caucasian, and I am always down for a great falafel, but I am INSATIABLE lately and everything today must be minty and garlicky.
Not enough of you are making this perfect food and so, although there will not be pictures, I will tell you the greatest fastest way to a foilc acid-filled Meatless Monday ever. Listen up:
Soak 2 cups chickpeas for 2 days in the refrigerator in just enough water to cover. Drain and let air dry for an hour or two before you use. Food processor : chickpeas, 1 small onion, 1/2 bunch mint, 1/2 bunch parsley, 2 cloves garlic, 1 medium egg, 1 slice bread, 2 big pinches salt, 20 grinds pepper, tablespoon cumin, juice of 1 small lemon. Process on low and stir a few times so it's evenly ground into a thick paste. Chunks of chickpea will make your balls fall apart. Fry a little, taste it and adjust if you need to. Balls or patties. Oil to 300 or so, 1 minute each side. Try to share.
Tzatziki is 1 cup yogurt, 2 tablespoons lemon juice, other half bunch of mint, finely chopped, 1/2 cup chopped or grated cucumber, 1 clove garlic as much salt and pepper as your dead old tastebuds need. Get flatbread.
One and a half paragraphs and your colon says THANK YOU.
This Meatless Monday post has been brought to you by my uterus.
Monday, April 18, 2011
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
We'll See
My husband has magic sperm.
Like those beans in Jack and the Beanstalk, he plants and a vine begins to grow.
My uterus, on the other hand, is like the gingerbread cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Children go in, but they never come out. Evan is a motherfucking miracle.
I had two miscarriages after he was born and was initiated into the club of superstitious freakouts who don't even want to breathe the word pregnant lest Rumpelstiltskin crawl out of the floor and steal my fetus or whatever it is that we're afraid of.
When I got to 36 weeks with Riley I felt like I could finally talk about the impending addition and we all know how that turned out. Never count your chickens before they hatch. Apparently that means human chickens too.
Thanksgiving before last I was 16 weeks pregnant. Walt. I knew it was a boy but it was hard to tell. He popped out while I was peeing and he looked just like the fetus on those horrible signs that the Devil Christians hold up outside Planned Parenthood. I was screaming, Nick and Evan came running, we didn't know what to do so we flushed. It only occurred to me later that it might have lived had I fished it out and had any kind of idea what to do when sort of thing happens. I had just finally gone to the midwife to discuss a natural birth plan. Superstition.
As I write, my belly is swollen, my boobs are killing me and when I am not face deep in the toilet, all I want is Buffalo Blue potato chips.Normally Buffalo flavor anything would make me gag, but this little shrimp is a hillbilly and enjoys the finer things in life. Like Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I am waiting until I have skipped three periods before I go and commit to a heartbeat and a name or two.
I'm sure you understand.
Like those beans in Jack and the Beanstalk, he plants and a vine begins to grow.
My uterus, on the other hand, is like the gingerbread cottage in Hansel and Gretel. Children go in, but they never come out. Evan is a motherfucking miracle.
I had two miscarriages after he was born and was initiated into the club of superstitious freakouts who don't even want to breathe the word pregnant lest Rumpelstiltskin crawl out of the floor and steal my fetus or whatever it is that we're afraid of.
When I got to 36 weeks with Riley I felt like I could finally talk about the impending addition and we all know how that turned out. Never count your chickens before they hatch. Apparently that means human chickens too.
Thanksgiving before last I was 16 weeks pregnant. Walt. I knew it was a boy but it was hard to tell. He popped out while I was peeing and he looked just like the fetus on those horrible signs that the Devil Christians hold up outside Planned Parenthood. I was screaming, Nick and Evan came running, we didn't know what to do so we flushed. It only occurred to me later that it might have lived had I fished it out and had any kind of idea what to do when sort of thing happens. I had just finally gone to the midwife to discuss a natural birth plan. Superstition.
As I write, my belly is swollen, my boobs are killing me and when I am not face deep in the toilet, all I want is Buffalo Blue potato chips.Normally Buffalo flavor anything would make me gag, but this little shrimp is a hillbilly and enjoys the finer things in life. Like Lynyrd Skynyrd.
I am waiting until I have skipped three periods before I go and commit to a heartbeat and a name or two.
I'm sure you understand.
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