A Toast.

A Toast.

I’d like to raise a toast to butter—the stuff from cows and nothing udder.

I’m not sure if that will develop into a full fledged poem, but I can picture it happening someday. Maybe today while I’m taking staples and nails out of our shed roof in the next part of fixing the hole from a tree limb taking a bite out of it earlier this year. Perhaps that tree limb was hankering for a nice crunch. Our shed isn’t toast, but it needs some repairs.

Toast. I have a feeling that this is something that can make a recovering alcoholic give pause. Toasts can mean alcohol. And alcohol can mean problems. Mean problems. That have severe consequences. Severe enough to just abstain. It’s what has to be done to stay in control.

I’m not an alcoholic. At least I don’t think I am. I have a feeling that if I were to imbibe, I might tend that way. I’m not going to tempt it. Being a sugarholic is enough to work around. Sugar lurks in many places. Of that I am very aware. I take the time with my new paradigm. I shun it because I care. I care what happens after. After the thrill of a bite that triggers a part of my brain and leaves me looking for more and more hits till I’m just a wreck of a train.

So, toast. I used to eat toast. Even after I greatly reduced my sugar intake. I read the labels and chose lower sugar breads. I loved Milton’s from Sam’s Club. And then a copycat Dakota bread that I made after seeing the Great Harvest offerings in Butte, Montana. But as I’ve paid more and more attention to how I react as a sugar addict, I’ve realized that it’s easier for me to stay in control with less and less refined grains. Don’t bring me flours anymore. Please.

But there’s something about toast, the taste buds boast. And it’s not just a conveyor of butter. That certain crunch, nooks and crannies, a bunch, and a great gob of fluffernutter… Well, the fluffernutter is out of the question any more(een). (If you’re not from New England, you might not know about peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwiches. They aren’t all they’re cracked up to be. Or maybe they are. I wasn’t actually brought up on them. But I could have been drugged up by them.)

A little side trip with the fluffernutter. I fed it into the last paragraph because it rhymed. But there’s no rhyme or reason that I will eat it now. Actually, just the thought of it makes my head feel strange. I know that it’s all in my head, but I’ve learned that my head holds a major part in my weight management and good health. I originally wanted to title my book Shrinking Myself because I felt like I’d gone through mind therapy (self-analysis “shrinking”) as well as body therapy (losing over 75 pounds). The title didn’t test well, though. No one really got it without an explanation. The I’m Possible Journey: Learning to Live with Sugar Addiction fits.

I write because I have found that it helps me process my thoughts. Processed thoughts help me feel better more than processed foods. Which brings me back to toast. I was reading Karen Thompson’s Sugar Free Revolution website and came across her recipe for Banting Bread. It’s a recipe very similar to one I’ve used for low carb hamburger buns. But today I made it the way she does with ground flax and unsweetened coconut. I split it, toasted it and filled the nooks and crannies with butter. I took a picture and shared it with Instagram whilst enjoying my scrambled eggs, bacon bits, seriously sharp cheddar cheese and lots of hashtags.

Yes. I’ll raise a toast to butter on my freshly toasted bread that is free of flours and addictive powers that simply mess with my head. The scent was decidedly wonderful but not with a siren song that would lead me to binging—completely unhinging—and feeling decidedly wrong.

I’d like to give a shout out (or perhaps raise a toast) to another person dealing with sugar/food addiction. Check out Hanna’s Blog. She mentioned me in her blog the other day as a fully recovered sugar addict, but I feel like fully recovered doesn’t fit. I know that the addiction is always ready to be woken up. I think I crave healthy more than the addiction, but my struggles lately with in between meal eating make me realize I have to tread lightly or I’ll be clomping obesely again. Raging out of control.

Even the fascinating webinar link I posted yesterday had some fallout for me. I wanted to chafe at the label of addict. I wanted to be able to eat something as simple as blueberries as a snack in the afternoon. I wanted to show myself that I really am normal and can stop whenever I want to. But in wanting to do that, I later realized that the label is right. Instead of putting the rest of the container of blueberries in the fridge when I got home, I ate them. In the car. In the secrecy of no one can see so it’s okay But it’s not. I knew it. And now you do too.

The wonderful thing about processing all of this, though, is that I’m Possible still. I’m aware. I beware. I care. As simple as the A, B, C’s and as complex as all the combinations of the alphabet. Wonderful when they’re put together right.

A toast to possibilities!

 

 

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