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Theo Romeo told me that everyone who reads my column probably has diabetes, and since men with beards always speak the truth, I believed him.
Seriously, I get that I write about sweets maybe a little too much, but it’s because they make the sour parts of life livable.
Yes, I understand that my penchant for focusing on Nutella for three weeks or gushing over cupcakes every other sentence can put a lot of fattening thoughts into your head. And for that I am sorry. It was not my intention to give you or myself diabetes.
As penance, I am going to eat salads. I am going to eat nothing but salads for lunch and dinner during the next seven days. And next week I will write about how miserably happy I am for not putting anything sugary into my mouth. Or next week I will just write a bunch of cleverly-strung-together expletives.
I’ve already got it all planned. My first salad of the week is going to be a melange of baby spinach with gorgonzola, crisp green apples, and walnuts.
I cannot express to you in words how amazing it feels to stuff your face with a forkful of tiny greens and chomp down on a mix of crunchy nuts, tart apple, and creamy, pungent cheese.
I can only explain this amazing experience via sound, so whenever you hear a bell ring, I am eating this salad.
Before I start this adventure, I’m going to scarf down some sweet, moist red velvet cake covered in cream cheese frosting and pecans, so I have something fond to remember my carefree sweet-eating days by. Then spend the rest of my week with a leafy fork in my mouth.
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