The Christmas Diet

With Thanksgiving stuffed tidily down my gullet and the globs of candied yams scrapped off the kitchen floor, my husband Spike and I grimly face the December Diet. The one where you smile and say 'thank you' when neighbors drop of cookies but self-righteously dump them in the trash the minute you wave them off the doorstep. The diet where you repeat in your mind day and night that Santa is a fat fraud who would rather you end up with type II Diabetes and die in your sleep next month so he doesn't have to whip up yet another Christmas present for you. The diet where the Christmas tree lights shine a little dimmer because your eyes are misted over with the dull ache of hunger.

Its in times like these when I turn to the cooking channel. I am a vicarious eater when I have to be. Tonight, I was pacing the living room, agonizing over our bare cupboards (my enterprising husband dropped all our ice cream, sweets and sugar goodies off at a neighbors home the night we started our Christmas fast). What did I want? What did I really want? Food. Plain and simple. And the food network delivers. If I turn up the volume just enough and get cozy up to our 47" t.v., it's almost like they are serving me. I silently salivate through the preparation of a delicate tiramasu, watching to make sure they dust just enough coco powder on top to fit my liking. Then the dish is presented and I drop my mouth open just in the slightest to receive a sliver of the t.v. delight. I can taste it. And it's everything I hoped it would be. Spike moans in agony and begs me to change the channel. He hasn't learned to feed off of a satelite signal. I ignore him and prepare for another bite of the seductive dessert. Spike leaves the room. Good. Now there's more for me.