Update (7/12): Just a preface to anyone who hasn't read this yet; I'm not dying! I was just pissed when I wrote the entry, so perhaps I sound like I'm dying even though I'm not. My asthma isn't any worse than it was two weeks ago. If I'm near death, it's because I got run over by a car or attacked by a psycho in the subway. You can think about that instead! :D Thanks for expressing your concern.
asthma: a chronic lung disorder that is marked by recurring episodes of airway obstruction (as from bronchospasm) manifested by labored breathing accompanied especially by wheezing and coughing and by a sense of constriction in the chest, and that is triggered by hyperreactivity to various stimuli (as allergens or rapid change in air temperature)
I guess it's Webster's job to be wordy, considering that it's a...dictionary. However, I'm not a dictionary, last time I checked. Simple carbon-based life forms such as myself don't have to come up with lengthy descriptions with complicated words like "bronchospasm" (although admittedly, I kinda like that word) and "lung". Here's my definition:
asthma: a disorder where the lungs, losing all will to live, constantly try to kill their host through mild boughts of oxygen deprivation (or suffocation). The host tries to combat the lungs' wishes by using medication that relaxes the brochial tubes, but the lungs fight back in their suicidal streak. At some point the host will hopefully realize what the lungs have been trying to say (as straightforward as it could without the use of vocal chords) all along—that the host doesn't deserve to live.
And then they lived happily every after!
Actually, that was kind of wordy. Please accept my apologies.
I'm glad I'm not religious or else I'd be pretty mad at whoever "created" me right now. No one created me; I'm just a mix of defective genes! Sure, it could be worse—all my apprendages are in the right place and of the correct quantity (is it funny to think that if you have two arms then you have an above average numbe rof arms?)—but...my lungs! They're constantly trying to unintentionally drive me closer to suicide. One day, it won't be so unintentional. Hahaha!
...Okay, I don't mean to offend, as suicide isn't funny. I suppose life is just prolonged decay; everyone's body is killing itself. Slowly. It just feels much more rapid with asthma. Like..."Heeey, what's going on in there? Stop constricting. Dumbass." And then sometimes the initial reaction is to hyperventilate, which only makes it worse. The body is such a complex marriage of a bagillion organs, nerves, bones, veins, and...ye know, other gooey, mushy things (thankfully the medical field is not in my future), but then it goes into stupid wheezy mode, which makes absolutely no sense to me. I suppose if I had a worse affliction, attention would be diverted away from my lungs to something else. "Ahh, leave the lungs alone. Let's fuck up the kidneys!"
So! My weekend was peachy. No, not that kind of peachy. My definition of peachy in this context is "food-mitigated misery." I'm not Webster; I can say whateverrrr I want. Just don't quote me in a paper.
Actually, it wasn't that bad. It's all in my head. Of course. What's all in my head? All food. Bad. Off limits. Can't eat. Can't go out. That? [points to theoretical potato] Tuber of death. And that? [points to theoretical bowl of rice] Grains of death. And that? [points to theoretical house cat] Cat.
I love my mum, but I have a tendency to blow up around her when food stress reaches its boiling point in my brain. She doesn't understand my problem and I don't understand hers. Actually, that's not true; my problem is that she seems to think that my 20 year old self can handle the same insanity inducing diets as her 52 year old self. Whenever I complain about fasting, she'll remind me that she did a one-week juice fast while working full time and taking care of my brother and me when we were little. OKAY, I AM NOT SUPERMOM. We did both do the raw food diet at around the same time (I was really into it; can you imagine me doing that now?!), but I don't think she understands how important food has become to me as a social aspect. (She'd probably feel more at ease if I ditched this blog.) I don't even socialize that much! When the opportunity arises, I kind of need to take it.
While it's not necessary to combined food and meeting people, that's usually what I do. I guess it was easy for me to just eat raw food senior year of high school and freshman year of college because it was unlikely I'd participate in much socialization even if I did eat cooked food (high school was craptastic), but...who knows. Maybe I would've made more than five friends at Vassar if I had joined them in the dining hall and indulged in the Aramark-owned food instead of scarfing down bananas and oranges by myself in my dorm room.
Anyhoo. Since I didn't have fooding to take up my time over the weekend, I naturally tortured myself by reading detailed descriptions of food.
- Garlic and Sapphires by Ruth Reichl
After at least five people told me to read this over the past year, I finally hobbled over to amazon.com (because ye know, it takes a lot of effort to buy things on the Internet these days—it's a good thing I did all those finger exercises) and secured myself a copy of Ruth Reichl's memoir outlining the ridiculous disguises and personas she took on in order to get the most genuine experience from a restaurant. Or at least not the one given to a New York Times restaurant critic. As much fun as it sounds to eat out nearly all the freakin' time, I can't say I'd want to be a restaurant critic after reading this book. I do want to eat at some of the places she's mentioned though. When I finished the book, I felt sad that there wasn't any more. That's when you know it's good. If you're anything like me, you should enjoy her book.
- Heat by Bill Buford
After finishing G&S, I went right into Heat, Bill Buford's recollection of working in Babbo and learning how to prepare Italian food (butchering, making pasta, polenta, other stuff) by ...going to Italy. A lot. It's crazy. All the while he outlines Mario Batali's rise to fame and describes Marco Pierre White in such a way that makes me deathly afraid of him. Buford describes the wide range of food minded people he works with and learns from, the common thread being (to me) that they all sound kind of insane. But due to that burning foodie passion they manage to keep it together and make awesome food. Damn.
So you should read it. No, scratch that; you will read it, especially if you're Morten. It's interesting to read after G&S since the end of Heat refers to Reichl's review of Babbo, which she dedicates a chapter to in G&S. IT ALL COMES TOGEEEETHER.
It almost feels incestuous.
I've never eaten at Babbo and I'm not sure the book has increased my interest. At some points it heightened it (such as...that the food is really tasty), while other points it lowered it (the kitchen sounds like an alternate dimension of hell). The outcome of the positive and negative is...back to neutral (Babbo is of course on my "eat there someday" list). Hm. Well. If anyone make sa reservation and needs an extra person to fill a seat, just let me know and I'll hop right in.
I ate too much fruit today. Hopefully I'll have something more interesting to talk about later this week.