San Francisco Bay Area resident Patrick Totty writes about his experiences living with type 2 diabetesSee all posts »
Ulysses and the Seven Siren Cheetos
My wife, who is extremely slender and has never suffered from being an ounce overweight, rediscovered the Cheeto about two years ago.
The Cheeto, as we all know, is the devilish combination of salt and tangy, orange-y fat that the Frito-Lay Company invented some years ago when it set out to conquer the world.
Even the great Julia Child admitted a fondness for the crinkly things, answering candidly that when it came to her educated palate’s fondness for junk food, the Cheeto was what her taste buds begged to bring them to the dance.
For me, the Cheeto comes surrounded by an aura of forbiddance. As a type 2, I strive to avoid big carbohydrate hits, especially when it sashays in front of me, clad in a sleazy coat of cheesy splendor.
So I gave up the things a while back, consigning them to my mental closet of pleasant memories. But one day my wife came back from the store with a bag of Cheetos.
There was a peculiar symmetry there: While I was pushing Cheetos far to the back of my mind, my wife was busily bringing them forward. Marriage often works in odd ways.
Once she rediscovered their taste, my wife’s habit became to sit with her Kindle in the late afternoon, idly reaching into a small bowl from time to time to snatch an orange goody---fuel for the read.
Throughout all this I played Ulysses and slashed myself to the mast so that I wouldn’t succumb to the Sirens’ seductive sound. Yesterday there was an accident and I got loose.
I dropped seven Cheetos into a bowl (5 grams of carbs), sat down and spent a couple of minutes smacking my lips down memory lane. They were good, created by savvy bakers who know that the magic combination of salt and fat is the way to the human heart, stomach, and pocketbook.
But having eaten those pieces, I can truthfully say that I’ve returned the Cheeto to the back of my mind. I enjoyed the outing and liked catching up on things, but when I was finished I had no desire to rekindle the romance.
You may be thinking that there’s a slippery slope here, that having successfully experimented with eating something I’d foresworn the next time I do one of these experiments I might encounter a temptation I can’t resist.
You’re right. So I’ve promised myself that aside from a tub of garlic fries twice a year at the San Francisco Giants’ ball park, no more experiments with rekindled memories and willpower.
Not even if my wife brings home muscat raisins, or peanut butter cookies, or vanilla gelato.