Dear Carbs: Wish me a Merry Christmas

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Dear Carbs:

About Thanksgiving. Yes. The stuffing was delicious. Yes. The homemade sweet potato pie with the crumbly, buttery crust that could only have been made by the fluttering of wings by little baby angels was excellent.

I admit that, after all this time, it was nice to sit down at the table with you. You are looking good. Very fluffy. And it's nice to see you looking so happy. I can see you've moved on. Good for you. I'm glad. No. Really. I'm the one who broke it off, after all.

Still, I'm a little hurt. I really mourned you, and now I see that you just didn't care. I was a bauble to you, a jolly round bauble. When I was drowning my sorrows in god-forsaken CHICKEN, you were shipping off chocolate Santas and candy canes and caramels and bon bons and peppermint bark. You were stripping the poor Williams Sonoma catalog of all its respectability and sleazing it full of food porn. You were smacking Paula Deen with hams. You were creating these.

You're ruthless. You know that? Ruthless? But, try as I may, I just can't quit you.

Dear Carbs: The Natives are Restless

Dear Carbs:

You are determined for me to come crawling back to you, aren't you? This is why Americans are obese; you won't let go. You refuse to respect the end of a relationship. You're like chocolate butter cream frosting clinging to my arteries. You are chocolate butter cream frosting clinging to my arteries.

I see that you've decided to play hard ball. Convincing my youngest daughter to go on strike until she gets sugar was a bit of genius. "No Hugs, No Sugar," that's the rallying cry around here these days. But psyche on you! The rallying cry used to be, "You're a bad mommy," so I'm thinking this is an improvement.

Oh, and don't think that lasagna at the swim team banquet changes anything. It was a moment of weakness, that's all. Goodbye. End of story.

I am on to you like white on rice so watch your back.

Dear Carbs

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Dear Carbs:

Don't take this the wrong way. You're great. You are doughy and sweet and sometimes frothy and bubbly. Ummm. I love you. You make me nice and full and you always have a way of making me dream a little bigger. That's why this next part is so hard.

The thing is...I'm breaking up with you . It's not that I've fallen in love with another food group. For Godsake no! Don't listen to any of that gossip Mr. Protein is spreading. I could care less about protein. Protein. Pfff. What's protein but a big ol' slab of something chewy.

The thing is...we've just become co-dependent, and I see now that you're bring me down. We're just not right for each other. You are luscious and delicious. I am 44 and my waist is getting thicker. And it's not just that. If it was just about my waist it would be fine. What the hell do I care about my waist when there is chocolate cake to be had? Nothing! I love chocolate cake!

The real deal breaker, the real heartbreaker, is the kids. Yes. I'm doing this for the kids. You're a bad influence on them. Ok? I'm going to be tough now because that is the only way you will listen! You make them crave you and worship you and then you send them spiraling into sugar-induced lows, fits of grumpiness and distractedness. Don't you dare tell me the scientific research is inconclusive! I talked to the damn dietician! Ok! She said ixnay on the ugarsay! So there!

I can see you are not taking this well. I understand. Do you think it's easy for me? I'm going to give you some time to sleep on this, and then we'll talk later. When we've both calmed down.

In the meantime, I want you to meet my new best friend: Mr. Endive. He's not as sexy as you, I know, but he's good for me, damn it! Good for Me!

P.S. I will always love you.

Margaret

P.S.S Maybe we can do lunch sometime. When the kids are at school. Our little secret. Damn. I just can't quit you.