I’ve been trying to write this post for a few days, but every time I sit down to do it, my fingers abruptly decide they have better things to do (like typing my password into my Netflix account) just as my brain simultaneously shouts, “I’m blowing this popsicle stand!” and departs to an undisclosed location. I have some theories that might explain this.
My fingers, themselves, may have an even bigger addiction to Breaking Bad than I do.
My brain might be having a secret affair with another blog.
The mere mouthwatering image of raw spice cake truffles maybe makes me forget how to act like a human.
Three solid options. However, as believable as each of these possibilities is, none of them quite ring true. So… what is the real reason?
I ate an entire 16 oz jar of Artisana’s cashini butter in one sitting a few days ago. Did I mention it was an entire 16 oz? And that is was in a single sitting? And that it was only one of the many other things I ate that day?
What does my consuming a normal person’s month supply of cashini have to do with my inability to write a silly little blog post? Well, a lot, apparently. Writing is a confirmation of Who I Am. The act of writing fuels my joy. It usually ends leaving me with a unique collection of words that I carefully chose and creatively strung together. A recipe of which I’m proud. A dish that both my ego and my soul would agree to go halves-ies on.
But… I recently ate an entire 16 oz jar of cashini. All by myself. In about a half an hour. And somehow, it made me feel like a terrible person. Somehow, it made completely inaccessible any joy, pride, or confidence when creating. Somehow, it replaced my brain with a tiny Gisele Bündchen repeating, “There’s simply no hope for your thighs now.” She grimly declares this and then runway walks from my frontal lobe to occipital lobe in one single stride because even her legs in miniature are so outrageously long compared to those of her action-figure-sized friends – scratch that – lego people friends. They don’t even get to experience the joys of having knees.
I have knees. It’s nice. And my legs are strong. They carry me through all sorts of hikes. They dance their way through all sorts of choreography. My right knee displays a prominent piece of lead on its side where I naively stabbed it with a pencil in kindergarten, and there’s not even an ounce of hard feelings between us. Equally, my left thigh features a quarter-sized circle of discoloration where I naively rested a pan (hot off the burner) two years ago, and does my left thigh seek revenge? Nay. My legs are kind to me. How can I be so cruel to them?
Oh yeah… BECAUSE I ATE AN ENTIRE 16 OZ JAR OF CASHINI THE OTHER DAY. And somehow, it made me feel like less. Less capable. Less beautiful. Less perfect. Less Desi. Somehow, it made me turn on myself with an eye more critical than those Negative Nancy folk who specifically sign on to Amazon simply to catapult a mess of harsh words and a bad rating at every product they’ve ever purchased. No shower curtain rod, toaster, or used book is ever good enough.
What is most fascinating to me about this whole experience is how I’ve been swimming in self-bashing for days, and yet I’d never considered writing about it until now. In fact, my impulse was to push it under the rug. Don’t talk about it. Feel ashamed for feeling ashamed in the first place. Then I realized what silence would accomplish. It would only feed this body image plague that runs rampant in our country. Staying quiet does nothing but uphold the glamourous myth stating that beauty is attainable by just two ways: photoshop or self-destruction.
I’m done with staying quiet.
The reason: I ate an entire jar of cashini in under an hour. And I haven’t stopped punishing myself for it since. And… I think you and I are the same.
No, I’m not accusing you of sharing my nut butter addiction and black hole of a stomach. I’m merely suggesting that we each have our own personal cashini jar. It is whatever triggers us to be our own bullies: a mirror, a magazine cover, a cookie, even a so-called “friend.” Our bullies are present more than we realize. They haunt us so often, you’d think all of American womankind has multiple personality disorder. This being the norm, it is all the more difficult to recognize and remain aware of it. As soon as we acknowledge that our culture’s twisted values affect us all , and that life is not to be confused with a constant state of comparing, maybe we’ll also realize that our “cashini jars” have, in truth, zero power over us. Maybe uniting in our pain will be enough to reverse it. I hope so. I, for one, long for the day when I’ll eat an entire 16 oz jar of cashini, maybe get a stomach ache, laugh about it, embrace my puppy love infatuation with food, and then let it go. Sans Gisele, please.
I believe the “beauty myth” exists to keep us divided against ourselves and against each other. And we’re buying it. Maybe less and less, mind you, but we’re still buying it.
Anyone save their receipts?
Raw Spice Cake Truffles
adapted from Casey’s Lemon and Coconut Balls
1 ripe avocado
1/4 cup coconut flour
2 Tbsp raw carob powder
2 Tbsp filtered water
1/2 tsp ground cinnamon, plus more for dusting
1/2 tsp ground nutmeg
1/4 tsp ground ginger
pinch of cloves
1/8 tsp himalayan pink salt
NuNaturals alcohol-free vanilla liquid stevia, to taste (I use about 1 dropper)
1) Blend avocado and water in food processor until smooth.
2) Add all remaining ingredients. Blend, scrape down sides, and repeat until mixture resembles a uniform cookie dough.
3) Roll spoonfuls into balls and dust with cinnamon.
4) Place truffles in freezer for 1-3 hours (depending on temp of freezer and your personal taste!) and then enjoy! The freezer hardens them a bit, making the exterior a bit firmer while keeping the interior soft! I am not sure how long these would last in the fridge since they never last that long after I make them…