No More Eating for Me

I seem to have become incapable of eating. Well not exactly incapable, but I haven’t felt a rumble of hunger in over three weeks, at least. It all started in India, the land where food dictates life and the fairer sex spends at least 10 hours a day holed up in the kitchen. India has neither an overabundance of food nor incredibly cheap dollar menus, but Indian society has to be the most gastronomically-oriented of any culture in the world. One needs only to look at the daily meal schedule to understand. While staying with my aunt and uncle in Delhi, here’s what two weeks of my life this past July looked like:

9 am: chai and namkeen (snacks)
11 am: nashta (breakfast) usually parathas (flatbread stuffed with vegetables)
3 pm: lunch (rice, dal (lentils), roti (flat, unleavened bread), subzi (vegetables), paneer (Indian cheese), and raita (yogurt))
5 pm: chai and namkeen
9 pm: dinner (same enormous spread as lunch, with maybe the addition of another subzi)
10 pm: dessert

As if this wasn’t enough on my plate (literally) my family and I also took a week-long vacation to the south where our hotels included an all-inclusive buffet (I’ll tell you, that’s a dangerous thing) and inexpensive room service.

But by no means am I complaining. Despite the fact that I spent the past month stuffing my face, it was only the best tasting, freshest food going into my mouth, the likes of which I won’t be tasting at home anytime soon. (And that’s no jab at my mom’s cooking, which is excellent, but you just don’t get the same kind of fresh raw ingredients here in the States.) And, as if you aren’t jealous enough at my three weeks of culinary heaven, my visit to the bathroom scale upon arriving home, made with great trepidation, was met with great surprise when I learned I’d actually lost three pounds in the midst of all that gorging. (I know, I know, you all hate me with all the fibers of your being, but hey, I’m young and apparently still have that kick-ass metabolism.)

But anyways, back to my point. Not only do Indians present you with this much food, but they very adamantly want you to eat it all, multiple times. If you don’t go back for seconds or thirds, they believe that to mean the food wasn’t good, and take it as a personal offense. We had to explain my aunt and uncle that at home, we don’t eat this much food in a week, let alone in one day. I definitely perfected my skill of veiled rejection, or “Oh no, I can’t possibly eat any more food, my stomach is just so full, but really, it really was such good food.” Or, as my dad told me, take as little as possible, eat it slowly, and even if you want seconds, wait for someone to tell you to take them. Because, just as the husband doesn’t really do the dishes unless his wife sees him do them, in India, you didn’t really take a second helping unless your hosts saw you take it.

At the beginning of the trip I felt a bit guilty eating so much, wondering just how many pounds were sneaking on, how much desi ghee was beginning to clog my arteries. But by the end, I figured, hell with it, I’m not getting this at home so I might as well enjoy it while I can and resolve to exercise harder once I get home. After the first week in India, I honestly do not remember hearing my tummy growl once. I figured everything would get back to normal once I got home.

But I’ve been home for a week now and my stomach still feels perpetually full. I have been eating, but only about one meal a day, and even that only because I know I have to, not because I actually want to eat. This weekend I did fill up on ice cream and greasy pizza, but my excuse was that I was at the beach. Besides, don’t I deserve to savor all that uber-fatty American food I missed while abroad? But now, I’ve resolved not to eat until my stomach growls, although there’s no telling how strictly I’m going to adhere to that guideline, seeing as Mom has just gone grocery shopping and I’ve got absolutely nothing to do while sitting at home.

The Joy of Reading...On Steroids

Books are meant to be savored, enjoyed like an expensive glass of wine. After a long day, nothing beats sinking into bed with a thick novel to carry you across the world or through time itself. It’s a comforting ritual, sipping a chapter or two before slipping off into slumber. I, on the other hand, am incapable of doing anything but gulp down book after book not unlike a famished runner downing gallons of water after a marathon.

In the past 72 hours, I have read 1,747 pages worth of literature: John Grisham’s “The Broker,” J.K. Rowling’s “Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows,” and Dan Brown’s “Angels and Demons.” I don’t know why I do it, why I can’t just put the book down after a couple of chapters and stretch the enjoyment of reading beyond more than just a paltry six hours. In obvious cases, like Harry Potter, the book is just too good to put down. But the Grisham book wasn’t anything special, yet I still found myself plowing through, page after page, until there was nowhere left to turn. My brother sometimes accuses me of simply skimming the book, racing through it just to say that I finished in x number of hours. But that's just not true. I read each and every word on the page and I follow the story properly, just a bit more quickly than most.

It's like my curiosity is on overdrive. Usually, you read a couple chapters, rest the book on the nightstand and drift off to sleep, dreaming about what the characters will do next, what twist and turn of the plot will they end up in tomorrow? But for me, the suspense is just too much, even if the book sucks. I've tried many times to put the book down and just go to bed, but unless I'm utterly bone-dead tired, 15 minutes later I'll turn the light back on, reluctantly return to my page and reenter the story.

I remember when I was reading "Pride and Prejudice" (which by the way is my all time favorite book (I know, what a cliche, but hey it's every girl's dream)) in high school, how agonizing it was to have to stop reading each day after the assigned chapter or two was completed. I wanted so badly just to continue on, but I was worried that, since we had questions to answer for each chunk of chapters, finishing the book would mess up my ability to complete them. However, since none of the question asked us to predict what was going to happen later in the book, this rationale really made no sense whatsoever. I still remember the sense of elation I felt when I casually mentioned this to Ms. MacNemar and she told me it was okay to finish the book. That afternoon, I sat in a beanbag chair in the middle of my room and didn't budge until Elizabeth Bennet had once and for all ironed out her tribulations with Mr. Darcy. (I still don't understand, to this day, why I thought I needed a teacher's approval to finish reading the book and I know this story marks me as pretty much the dorkiest person ever, but hey, this is the internet. You don't know who I really am, right.)

Yankees Still In the Game

And this, my friends, is why I'm a Yanks fan. No matter what the season looks like now, come October, anything can happen.