Mma Ramotswe sighed, “We are all tempted, Mma. We are all tempted when it comes to cake.” McCall Smith
There are so many temptations. Even in Starbucks with its case full of cardboard treats made who- knows-how-long-ago, I find myself looking twice. I Admit it. I do. You probably do, too. And television. Knowing they put those late-night commercials on to tempt you to call Domino’s, my mouth waters. I call Dominos. I wouldn’t eat at Arby’s if I were starving but, ba, ba, ba, ba, bing the commercial for Arby’s meat is right there in my RAM ready to spill out onto and Arby’s counter if I’m not careful.
For a fact, my Temporal Lobe is jammed with old food commercials and memories—past birthday extravaganzas, the time I was eight at the circus and my mother let me buy as much cotton candy as I wanted and I did. I remember that. I remember how sick that was. That was sick. But I did it again. Stroganoff can put me in bed with a bellyache. Did I stop eating it? You guess. Dopamine, serotonin and norepinephrine, the chemicals an addict is chasing when she gets high are also the chemicals released when we eat fat/sugar/salt in the proper combo.
Lately I’m watching my intake. Although I have been cooking three family meals a day, give or take, for five decades, I distrust glossy food photos and cooking magazines. I skip the commercials on TV. My cookbooks sit lonely on the shelf. I am aware of food cues and being too tired because I may be too tired to exercise but I’m never too tired to eat. I’m moving toward becoming a vegetarian/vegan. But I have to admit I’m tempted. I’m tempted when it comes to cake.
