There are a ton of Thai places in our neighborhood, but my favorite is Stang Thai. My husband had a hankering for Thai food for dinner, and I was only too happy to abet this. I ate the meatloaf and soup as “mindfully” or whatever as I could and answered the app’s questions: “Did you eat slowly? Did you stop when comfortably full?” I don’t know, I guess so? Another day, another app to disappoint. I have learned many, many unpleasant things about myself during the pandemic, and one is that I am a lousy and impatient teacher, and that watching 8-year-olds try to measure flour is an excellent road to a heart attack.
#Emily flake crack
These recipe boxes make you imagine you should be doing them side by side with your child in your well-appointed kitchen, maybe at your kitchen island, instead of at your wobbly old IKEA table, trying your best not to grab the egg out of your kid’s hand and just crack the fucking thing yourself - the egg, I mean, not kid. I’m not a meatloaf person, usually, but this meatloaf is legit, comforting and filling, perfect for a raw day. Honestly, though, sometimes the recipes are excellent. I guess it’s consensual? I’m remarkably susceptible to Instagram advertising. By “subscribe,” I mean I just bought one once and have allowed them to charge my card ever since. There was leftover meatloaf and cheddar-broccoli soup in the fridge from the night before, from this bougie kids’ cooking box thing I subscribe to that comes once a month. Plus, I had to pick my daughter up from one of her two weekly in-person days at school. I wasn’t sure if this was level-three hunger or level-three worry and procrastination manifesting itself as a tummy rumble, but I figured I might as well throw food at the problem and find out. Maybe the honey would be good for it though?īy two, I was hungry again. I don’t want to beslime it with even a whisper of cashew yogurt. Eating slowly is particularly easy for me these days - I had a molar extracted a couple weeks ago, and it’s still a weird, gummy sponge up there. I ate the yogurt slowly, as per my diet app’s instructions. The orange has to be a mandarin or a clementine. The honey has to be the pricey raw shit I get from the farmer’s market because the stuff that comes in a bear tastes like Band-Aids. I’m picky about some very specific things: The coffee has to be Bustelo. Mandarin oranges are a staple around here.
I also had a mandarin orange, separately.
#Emily flake plus
Three is somewhere between “Ehh, I could eat” and “I will murder you just to eat your whole face.” I slithered a glorp of unsweetened cashew yogurt into a bowl - I’m not vegan, I’m just a weirdo who likes cashew yogurt - and topped it off with a handful of sunflower seeds to give my teeth something to do, plus a spoonful of honey. Maybe this is because I use twice as much of it to brew a cup as I should?Ī little after eleven, my “body” was sending me “hunger cues,” which I’m only supposed to listen to when they reach a level three, according to my “diet program,” which is called Naturally Slim. Café Bustelo tastes dark and comforting and kind of chocolatey, heavy on the bass notes.
I don’t know coffee-language, but I’ve noticed a tendency toward bright, sour, clanging notes in some coffee that I hate. Which is nothing to sneeze at, silver lining-wise, but on the other hand, the number I saw on the scale was sobering.Īnyway, I had my morning ritual, which is unchanging: two cups of Café Bustelo, pretty much the minute I wake up, brewed as strong as possible and enjoyed without adulteration. But then New York announced vaccine eligibility for anyone with a BMI over 30, so just, you know, for fun, I shoved a couple AAs into my dust-covered scale and hopped on. I’d spent the entire pandemic avoiding the scale, partly because it had run out of batteries, partly out of a perverse desire not to document anything about this weird non-time. I don’t really eat breakfast per se, a holdover from a semi-recent and entirely unsuccessful attempt to lose weight through intermittent fasting. Ferrying between Brooklyn and the Keystone State this week, Flake fielded a minor salad crisis, assisted in the making of a “legit” meatloaf from a children’s meal-kit service, and may have discovered an off-label use for Mentos. Nell’s Humor Writing Residency for Ladies in Williamsport, Pennsylvania. For “cartoonist-writer-performer-teacher-illustrator” Emily Flake, the last year has been “a weird non-time,” like “being at the airport - one of those limbo-like spaces where your body and brain kind of cease to exist.” Still, the New Yorker humorist has had plenty going these final, pre-vaccine months, including a proposal for what would be - she counts - her fifth book, a YA graphic novel, and establishing the St.
0 kommentar(er)
