Tag: Eating

Help, I can’t stop thinking about tupperware

(it’s not the right time to be sober, ‘coz now the tupperware is taking over)

I never really got tupperware before. I didn’t see the need to fill a fridge with small plastic tubs when tin foil would do the trick; I didn’t know why kids would lug sandwiches around in those unwieldy plastic boxes, that didn’t even get smaller as you ate their contents. Tupperware was weird to me.

But then I tried using some tupperware, and now I can’t stop thinking about it.

I’m thinking about what I can put in my various Russian Doll-stacked boxes next; I get uneasy when there’s not a hoard of boxed leftovers in the fridge because it means the storage space is going to waste; I’m incorporating them into my evening bag-packing routine, just in front of the folders, snugly alongside the water bottle and beneath the BG kit; I’m even starting to plan meals around what could easily be tupperwared and eaten cold the next day. It’s terrifying.

I think a lot of this stems from the fact that I’m making actual food these days. From my accidentally over-shared lasagne the other week to mash with vegetables to standard stir fries, all of these things can be eaten half now, and half later. This has massively cut down on the size of my meals, and is letting me eat two or three regular-sized meals a day, rather than one heart attack-inducing gorge-fest a day – and still have food for days. I’m also taking my diet more seriously; I’m committed to this vegan thing, but also to the myriad of sporting and logistical responsibilities I have at the moment, and to keep all of these intact I need to be thinking about what I’m eating more carefully. The existence of tupperware in my life means I can eat decent things at regular intervals, rather than bailing and settling for the one vegetable samosa Costa serve every other day. It’s even cheaper too, as my (admittedly eye-watering) one-off investment of nine quid into some tupperware has cut the number of overpriced coffee shop sandwiches and snacks.

Basically I’ve been converted to the cult of tupperware. And no, I don’t care that it’s taking up all my flatmates’ fridge space.

Breakfast is a good thing

(the most important meal of the day, serving it up Gary’s way!)

I’ve had breakfast for the past two consecutive days and, contrary to all of my previously anti-breakfast sentiments, I’ve rather enjoyed my bowl of bran flakes with suspiciously unidentified ‘dried fruit’. Add soya milk to the mix and it’s not really a hassle, and perhaps even an enjoyable thing.

Of course, this is helped by the fact that my weekends start with an hour’s walk to work, so I can get any lingering glucose out of my system before I have to do any thinking, so I never feel the annoying post-meal high that I usually do.

I’ve also moaned in the past about the expense of eating two meals a day, but that’s rather counteracted by my current employment, and my recent realisation that I don’t need to drop forty quid on a new game every month.

So basically, the need to get a job saved breakfast for me. Cheers capitalism.

Those Big Bags Of Crisps Will Literally Kill Me

(thought I’d stop being so mopey all the time on this blog)

You know those 150g bags of crisps you can buy? Those sharing-sized bags of Doritos that are cheaper if you get, like, seventeen at once, or the Cracker Crisps that come in 45,402 different flavours which you have to buy, so you end up taking out a mortgage to do your weekly snack shop? Yeah, those ones are gonna kill me.

A lot of this is my fault, as I’ve spent the last year eating such things in place of real food, and I have developed quite a, if you’ll excuse the idiom, taste for them; I like the simplicity of eating them out of a bag, I like the variety of flavours, I like the consistency of carb content that means I don’t have to do any complex maths to cover them when transitioning from one brand to another. They’re also relatively cheap and are one of few flavoursome things I can eat at the moment (for reasons I won’t be disclosing on the blog for a little while yet).

But I’m not totally to blame; I still have the metabolism of a sixteen year-old, and despite my best efforts to live off two meals a day and spend my time not stuffing my face, it’s very difficult when my body is still trying to harvest all the available nutrients in a fifteen-mile radius like a particularly greedy plant with a rather spectacularly wide root system. Or a really fat motherfrakker with a lot of money and a lot of free time.

Also, those bags are the perfect size for what I call a half-meal, a unit of food somewhere between a snack and a meal that cannot alone sustain a person for a whole day, but are a very nice solution for when it’s not time for your meal of the day, but are hungry. Normally, I’ll have two such half-meals, and one full meal, a day; these crisps are apparently the perfect size for one to base one’s entire dining structure around.

Considering the fact that such crisps aren’t really that healthy, that title there isn’t comedic hyperbole, nor is it only a half-baked reference to this particularly wonderful Simpsons comic (if it does poke fun at mental disabilities a bit too much for nineteen-year-old James’ liking). I’ll probably end up dead, with a packet of chilli Cracker Crisps in my hands, like the poor Donutted bastards of that comic. And when you find me there, don’t make a joke about it being ironic that I was diabetic; I’ll haunt the shit out of you.

Dammit, Fruit!

(or, How I Learned to Stop Loving and Hate Potassium)

Fruit, darling, we need to talk. I like you. Really, I do. I know things have been tough this past year, and I’ve not seen you in literally eight months by this point, but I think you’re being a bit unfair now. I’m trying to make things better, okay? I’m trying to see you more often, and just the other day I threw out all my other food and just had you, like the old days when my one vegetarian relative would come to visit and we’d grow close that day, before tumbling apart again.

But you’re not even making that effort any more. I see you there, in your so-called airtight bag, bananas bruising and softening, oranges growing thicker and tougher to peel off into segments, so I have to eat them by sinking my teeth into their spherical surfaces, like those sadists who refuse to eat a Hubba Bubba correctly.

And I know there’s not too much you can do about this, because you break down naturally just as I can ignore you sometimes, equally naturally, but you could at least make an effort. Do you know how hard it is for one person, who may legitimately be suffering from a potassium and vitamin D deficiency (again) to get through a dozen bananas in three days? How torturous it is on my rotted taste buds and churning intestines to throw sharp, zesty flavours into these decaying systems, and not immediately projectile-vomit all over the nearest wall / book / flatmate?

I know I’ve been in the wrong in the past, but I’m trying to make it right. You’re not even dignifying me with an attempt.

Coconut Water Sucks

(if I were stuck on a desert island, I’d take my chances with the saltwater)

In my quest to become a Level Five vegan, and continue to add unnecessary restraint to my life, I’m starting to wean myself off produce, and cook vegan, rather than vegetarian, recipes. I’m quickly learning that the three buildings blocks of vegan cooking are butternut squash, a shit-load of lentils, and coconut products, like coconut milk and coconut oil. And I really like coconut milk!

So I thought I’d try coconut water today; I like coconut, and I like water, so this can’t go wrong, right? Yeah, no. It fulfilled that most difficult of criteria that only some rancid products can hit, that it was both tastelessly vile and totally unpleasant. There was maybe a hint of coconut, but that might just be me attributing the dire flavour to the picture on the carton based on sight alone, but the whole thing tasted of water-down coconut milk. In retrospect, this isn’t too surprising, but the great thing about coconut milk is how rich and simultaneously smooth and light it is, so you can consume your own body weight in it without feeling unwell, which is what happens when you eat chocolate, or Doritos.

But coconut water is robbed of that integral richness because it’s largely flavourless, and it’s about as expensive as a sandwich from the Co-op so it’s a waste of money, and it has carbs in it so I can’t drink it freely, but need to go through the blood test-insulin dosage faff whenever I drink any of the stuff.

All in all, the coconut water episode was a blight on an otherwise wonderfully productive day.

My Sweet Tooth

(or, indeed, teeth)

This is a tough one for me to admit, so apologies if this post degenerates into self-loathing and textual crying over my inability to eat healthily on a regular basis; but I have a pretty bad sweet tooth.

You may not expect this from me, considering I’ve had a medical condition for eleven years now actively making it difficult to eat sweet things between meals, and I abstain from everything everything from alcohol to drugs to fun because I apparently want to be a Puritan, but it’s true – I got through two packets of custard creams today. Two! And while that might not be a lot of crap – volume-wise or sugar-wise – for most people, it’s worryingly lax of me when doctors have spent over a decade drumming ‘don’t eat snacks’ into my squishy, ever-attentive head.

I go through phases of binge-eating; there’ve been the biscuits today, but I’ve not indulged in anything like that for months. But the last time, I ploughed my way through my own body weight in milk chocolate digestives, and when the NFL season is on, I’ll get through one of those sharing-sized bags of Doritos and a couple packs of Monster Munch per weekly game, for about four solid months, before inadvertently starving myself for the days in between.

I’d like to blame this on the diabetes side of things, that my current method of managing the damn thing – a pump, controlled by a button-press instead of injections that have to be, you know, injected – makes it easy to slip into a snacking, junk food-eating habit, largely because there isn’t the physical hassle and pain of an injection waiting for you if you let your diet slide. It’d be like getting an electric shock whenever you ate chocolate – you’d pretty quickly associate eating unhealthily with that pain. And sure, this pain isn’t there any more, but I think this reflects a wider breakdown in the structure of my life; at Sixth Form I was basically the epitome of upsettingly effective organisation and motivation, and now I can sleep for two hours a day, or sixteen, and honestly spend the wee hours of the morning writing poetry in alleys around central London like a kind of literary version of Jack the Ripper, about to spring out at you with iambic hexameter and the sustained metaphor of a shadow for transient, human existence.

But I don’t feel like a lazy, disorganised frakker, and I don’t think I am one – I still write regularly, keep up with work and essays, etc., etc. – I think the difference is that now the few fixed points in my life, e.g. I have to be at dodgeball at this time, are just that, ‘points’ to anchor my days, nights and activities around, instead of bits of rigidity and structure that feed into a wider structuring of my life. Essentially, if I need to be in Camden at five every Friday, that doesn’t mean I have to be up at nine that morning, and it’s taken me about eighteen years to realise this.

Equally, I’m eating more crap between regular, fixed meals, but those fixed dietary points are still a thing; to use a naff metaphor, I’m not falling off the rails so much as the rails now have loops and bends in them to make life a bit less like a depressingly efficient playthrough of The Sims 4, where all your Sims’ dreams come true and they master all their skills like well-behaved little shits. And to avoid becoming such a shit myself, I’ve decided to binge on custard creams occasionally, which is totally worth it.