Just desserts

Last week a painfully well-meaning pal sent me a cake recipe that involved oatmeal – the quick version – a green banana and just enough cocoa powder – like three tablespoons - to lend a brown tinge to the concoction.

According to the directions, the “baker” should mash the banana, add the oatmeal, a couple of eggs, some monk fruit (God forbid that sugar be even remotely involved) some baking powder, some flours and a cup of hot milk and bake in a 350-degree oven for half an hour.

What comes out of the oven only looks like a chocolate cake. In truth it looks like banana-flavored oatmeal with an ever so slight hint of chocolate.

Puleeeze!

But I choked down a slice anyway.

That’s because just like many other cancer survivors, my treatment for the disease left me with Type 2 diabetes. No insulin shots involved here, just strict adherence to a diet that is low on carbs and very, very low on sugar. Hence the monk fruit and under ripe bananas.

I don’t much like it, but it beats experiencing all those hideous things that befall diabetics when the disease is left unattended.

Still, when it comes to what I eat, I’m a snob.

Make no mistake though, I do not suffer from what the National Association of Anorexia Nervosa and Associated Disorders (ANAD) calls Orthorexia Nervosa (ON) a newly minted eating disorder “characterized by an obsession with eating ‘healthy’ or ‘pure’ foods to the point that it negatively impacts physical and mental health.”

Those who do suffer from ON compulsively check food labels for ingredients and nutrition facts, are obsessed with the “health” of their foods and avoid an ever-increasing number of foods including sugars, carbs, and animal products. They also have an unusual interest in the eating habits of other people, and feel superior to, even intolerant of, others in terms of what those people eat.

I, on the other hand, have very strict requirements for those things, and the things that qualify are sweet, have lots of chocolate and lots of carbs. Those that do not are not desserts. They are like eating saltines after you brush your teeth. Not worth the effort.

And then there is ice cream. Well, I’ll choke down vanilla, but only if it carries a drizzle of chocolate something – anything – does it make me happy.

As for fried chicken, deep fried is best. Also, best is the crunchy coating on the skin. I eat it all. Down the hatch it goes health concerns be damned.

The same goes for French fries. Hot and salty, please. Bring the mayo, hold the ketchup.

Then there is pasta - lots of pasta with lots of butter and garlic or smothered in tomato sauce – gravy if you make it with beef, pork and Italian sausage.

Well, you get the picture.

Of course, most of this is the stuff of which dreams are made.

Since a diet free of white anything – sugar, flour, bread, pasta or rice – figured significantly in keeping me cancer-free, I fantasize about food the way I used to fantasize about other things.

It’s not as exciting, but when you’re missing something, dreaming about it is nearly as good.

That doesn’t mean I’m not a snob about what I eat. I surely am.

After all, enough is good as a feast – except for an arugula salad. That’s never, ever worth daydreaming about.

Ever.