So I’m pretty sure my unborn child is entirely against my culinary happiness. Hear me out on this one.
For the first four months of pregnancy, I had severe nausea. I’m talking puking morning till night, so doped up on reglan and zofran all I could do is sleep and shove a few crackers down my throat the few minutes I was awake. Culinary happiness? Around -10.
When I finally regained control of my Linda-Blair-esque stomach pyrotechnics, months 4-6, I had a ridiculous appetite. More than your average, I’m pregnant and want to eat everything-appetite. More like, I just ate an entire Thanksgiving dinner and yet I feel empty sort of deal. Which might sound like its fun, but it made me feel uncomfortably full, and even worse–it packed on many, many, many pounds. Culinary happiness? -5.
To those of you who say, you are pregnant! Enjoy it and eat what you want! Um, who the hell is gonna be stuck losing all that weight after I eat all that I want? That would be me. Awesome.
Now I’m in month 7, and I get bitch slapped with a diagnosis of gestational diabetes. Which means? No sugar. No baking. No eating for pleasure period–just tiny needles that hurt my finger tips and constant tracking of what I shove down my pie hole. Culinary Happiness back at -10. Sure, it is just for three months, and things could always be worse (I could be on bed rest, or an alien could pop out of my stomach a la the last scene in Space Balls), but come on. Ride the pity train with me.
So three months from now, you will find a very exhausted me strapped next to a tiny new beautiful bundle of joy–an almond frangipane croissant from Tartine Bakery. And maybe a new baby.