Tricia’s first delivery was in a bucket, so I’m gonna talk about my bucket list. Rounding the bend into week two and my little Mary Sunshine is getting a bit wilted. Everything is nourishing. Everything is delicious. And it’s all really plenty.

BUT

I’ve been stressed these last few days with the launch of my teleclasses for the Fall and I have to admit that feeling crunched… I want crunch. Snappy crackers. Tamari almonds. Toast. While we’re at it, how about coating those almonds with chocolate.And melting some cheese on that toast. Oh, and slice an avocado on it. I don’t want 20 different yummy things to eat, I want 100. Snap. Crunch. Slither. Slurp.

I’m also noticing that under pressure I want VOLUME. I want to chow down. I want to have the maximum whatever slithering down my gullet and filling that fear place in the pit of my stomach that I think IS my stomach.

But I just can’t treat the food that grown and picked by my friend Tricia like a big Mac and fries. Make that two. In fact, this whole10 mile diet¬† idea arose in Tricia in response to a take off on the Super Size me Morgan Sperlock book and experiment. She wanted to do Super Veggie me. To chow down “relational food” feels really disrespectful. Well, disgusting. Sort of like being caught dumpster diving when you’re the guest lecturer. Or with your hand in the cookie jar at 4 AM. How did I learn to treat food like therapy? or a tranquilizer?

Tonight I talked with a friend who runs a poverty law agency about immigration policy. We talked about the lives of migrant farm workers. Up at 4, bussed to the fields, bussed back at 9 PM, sleep and start all over again. They earn about $6000 a year. Less than $5 an hour. So that I can chow down the berries and tomatoes and beans they pick? To deal with my stress?

How easy it is for us to forget what goes in to putting food in our mouths. How easy it is to treat food like a servant, rather than a dear friend.

Seeya later. There’s a crispy apple right over there and I’m going to… chow down.

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