Influence of meat texture on oral processing and bolus ...

Sorry this is so long, I wrote it out detailed for me and I don't want to have to condense it and rewrite it.
Our birth story started with a scheduled induction on March 9th, at 38 weeks 1 day. 38 weeks is overdue for twins and waiting longer increases the chance for fetal death, plus Ems suddenly measured a pound less than Will during a growth scan, and the docs were a bit concerned about that. I got no sleep the night before the induction and only about 4 hours on the two nights before that.
We arrived at the hospital around 2pm and they started me on cervidil. It's on a little wafer that they stick next to your cervix. At this point I was not dialated at all but 75% effaced. With cervidil you have to be on continuous monitoring and can't eat- which was true for pretty much the rest of my induction. For me that basically meant staying in a super uncomfortable bed through the induction. I couldn't even sit straight up because the monitors would freak out and only find one baby.
So anyway, 12 hours later at 4:30am Sunday (no sleep for me!) they check me and no progress. They decide I'm contracting too much on my own for a different cervical ripening drug and are going to try to put in a foley bulb, however they can't do it with the current position of my cervix, so I'm put on pitocin to try and make my cervix more favorable. Around noon they check me again and I'm a fingertip dilated, so they try and do the foley bulb. No luck. Really painful, though- they gave me some fentanyl for it because by this point the checks were really painful. 4pm they check and I'm 1cm! Unable to get fentanyl for this attempt because my IV decides to blow out, but they get it in! I begged for a break from the monitors so I could eat something and get out of the bed for a bit. They let me take a short break from the pitocin and my nurse lets me sneak a short bath in.
The foley made me bleed a ton and gave me painful contractions, but the bath helped a ton. They put me back on pitocin (and monitors) and let me have a sleeping pill because I hadn't slept a wink in 72 hours at this point. Sleeping pill didn't work so a couple hours later I got ambien. I finally got a couple hours of sleep. About 3:30am (Monday) I'm up in the bathroom and my foley bulb falls out! I was freaking ecstatic, and the bathroom looked like a murder scene. There was blood everywhere. So they check me and I'm 3cm! It's time to start upping the pitocin to get real labor started- of course I'm too excited to get any more sleep- my babies could come today!
They spend all day getting the pitocin to 20 and my cervix doesn't change at all. The contractions aren't even really hurting. I beg my team of docs to let me have a break to eat and shower so I can gather my strength, because I was honestly considering leaving the hospital or breaking down and asking for a c section. I know it may not sound bad, but 3 days in the hospital stuck in a painful bed, with only one meal, 2 hours of sleep over the past 4 days and finding out you've made no progress is really demoralizing. They were a bit disappointed but said ok.
So in better spirits, they start the pitocin up again and this time quickly ramp it back up. They discussed breaking my water to speed up labor (which I was totally fine with!) but since I'm not regularly contracting they don't. Gradually i start getting painful contractions. My husband helps by pushing back on my legs with me on my back and we work on breathing. I also try bouncing a bit on the birthing ball, which helps some. By 11:50pm I'm at 18 on the pitocin and contractions are getting really painful. I'm lying on my side trying to ride one out with breathing and visualization and my husband was trying to sleep, when I suddenly heard a pop and felt a huge gush. My water broke! I called the nurse in and she helped me get cleaned up. Immediately the contractions got worse and were right on top of each other. The nurse turned the pitocin down a bit to try and help. When the doc checked me I was still 3cm, but they were able to put an internal monitor on Emily so I could sit up and we wouldn't have to spend so much time monitor searching for them. The doc also said it was a fine time to get an epidural, so I requested one and got it almost immediately. As soon as it kicked in I passed out for a few hours. The rest of the night I was really out of it (and in and out of consciousness) so I'm not sure exactly of the order of things
A while later I woke to contractions getting painful again and got a bolus in my epidural. This happened again and they realized that the button I was supposed to press for a little extra in the epidural wasn't working. They fixed it and upped the basal rate. At some point they came in and put in an internal pressure monitor to make sure the contractions weren't too hard.
At about 6am on Tuesday (not so sure of the time on the next few things) they checked me and I had progressed to 4cm. I figured we were in for a long day. At about 7 I woke and realized I really had to have a bowel movement. It had been several days and I'd been requesting stool softeners so I was really relieved. I called and asked for a bed pan. The nurse comes in and decides we should call the doc instead. I was so frustrated because I had to poo so bad! The doc comes in, checks me, and I'm complete. From 4-10cm in an hour. Holy shit! They ask if I feel the urge to push and I'm like heck yeah, I have to poo right now!
Everything becomes an even bigger blur after this. Doctors come in and out of my room, prepping me for the OR (all twin births, vaginal or section happen in the OR for space reasons and because of the increased chance of emergency c section. My husband and mom get scrubs to put on. The new attending OB comes in (this was right at change of shift) and says that although every other dr I've had during my time in the hospital was ok with it, they would not be doing a breech extraction if Will flipped to breech after Emily was delivered. They would do a c section. I started shaking and threw up a bunch.
A very short while later I'm wheeled back to the OR in my bed. I'm so overwhelmed that I kept my eyes closed and tried to tune everything out so I could relax. Impossible. Oh, they had me do a practice push or two before we left my room and it was decided that I am a good pusher.
The OR is chaos- about 20 people, teams for each baby, anesthesiologists, at least 5 OBs. My hospital is a teaching hospital (one of the reasons I picked it) which means lots of residents/interns/students, but later I found out it was also student day so when the "all hands to the OR" call went out for a vaginal twin birth pretty much everyone who could piled in.
They have me slide over to the operating table, then slide down, so my legs were in stirrups up in the air and my butt was hanging off the end. Too quickly in the hubbub they're ready for me to push with my contractions, but I requested one contraction to mentally prepare myself and try to relax. My husband and my mom were right by my head (I was propped up a bit on a wedge) and at least 5 docs were gathered at my crotch staring at me.
So I started pushing with the contractions, and doing my best to pass out inbetween. About 3-4 contractions later she's crowning, and I reach down and feel the tip of her head. At this point they have trouble keeping her on the monitor, so they decide to use the vacuum to assist with the final push or two. I'm totally cool with this because it fucking hurts, I know relief is in store when she finally comes out and I know I have to do this again in a short while. Another contraction or two and Emily is born, screaming. They clamp and cut her cord quickly and the first pediatrician team takes her to look over. I think at this point they do an US to assess if Will has flipped and maybe even reach up into my uterus to check, and definitely reach up there to break HIS bag of water, but my eyes are on Emily. I ask to see her several times and they finally hold her up to show to me, and tell me she's just fine. Then I ask to hold her and they put her on my chest. Sorry ladies, but my little girl is the most beautiful in the world. I couldn't get over how big she seemed - she was 7lbs 12 oz, 21" long and we were expecting a SMALL baby! After about a minute they say Will is far enough down for me to push and ask if I'm ready. I hand Emily off to her daddy and steel myself for more pushing.
While pushing Will out his heart rate starts dropping. I can tell they're getting nervous and would like him out very soon so I up my pushing- which was hard, I was already so exhausted from Ems. They use the vacuum again on him and he's out, whimpering, a short 33 minutes after his big sister was born. Again cord clamping/cutting and he's whisked away by peds. I got to hold him shortly after as well, and I was a bit surprised by how different they looked. His complexion is much redder while she's quite pale and his face is shaped really differently. Also he was covered in a lot more vernix. He's also smaller than her- 7lb4oz, 19.5" long. Both of their apgars were 7 and 9.
A quick push later and the placentas slide out. I ask to see them and it's pretty cool- you can see both separate ones but they're attached and you could see both sacs with a membrane separating the two. So they start stitching and I ask if I tore and if so how bad- 2nd degree tear, with Emily. I'm exhausted and nearly fall asleep while I'm rolled back to my room.
In my room I tried to nurse Ems for a bit, but I was so tired I was worried I was going to pass out and drop her. They asked if I wanted to do Will as well, but I started shaking badly and threw up again, so I couldn't. I passed out and woke later, not sure what time, to the nurse asking if I could try peeing. Peeing the first time was hard. It's still hard, 4 days PP, mostly because it stings, sitting on the toilet is painful and so it's hard to relax. Eventually we get sent up to the mothebaby unit.
We came home the next afternoon. PP we've had feeding challenges- my milk hasn't come in and I wasn't making enough colostrum for both so they've both lost about 10% of their weight, and Will's bili levels are rising. We decided last night to supplement with formula, and it's a huge relief. There is nothing so heartbreaking as your newborn refusing to latch and scream for hours because they are so hungry, or refuse to wake to feed because they're dehydrated. So I'm BFing for 30 mins, followed by an ounce of formula, followed by me pumping. Do this every 2 hours TWICE and it adds up to very little sleep, but I am thrilled that they're getting nutrition and seem much happier (no more marathon heart wrenching cry sessions).
Their first outing/pediatrician appt was today and they both look very healthy, other than the borderline high weight loss and Will's bili level. My pediatrician gave great advice on BFing and said we made the right choice with supplementation- she's very pro BFing (she BF her son) but said its really common with twins to not make enough at first, but as long as I keep BFing before each supplementation and pump after I shouldn't have a latching or supply problem. She also said that when they aren't getting enough and they start refusing to wake to feed and won't latch because they're so upset it does more to damage my supply and hurts them.
As for me, I love not being pregnant anymore. I had an awful pregnancy, and my hyperemesis disappeared the day of delivery. I can walk better now than before, sleep better (when I get to!) and move better. I lost 25 lbs by the day after delivery. Pooping was scary, but with stool softeners not really painful. I got a huge hemorrhoid from pushing, and I have more pain from that than the tear. I'm a bit anemic, and I hurt in weird places as I learn to stand up straight again. Things are already on the mend, though. :-). See you ladies in BTB!
Bonus! Pic of my two sweethearts snuggling together: http://i.imgur.com/OPTDeP4.jpg

As her hand reaches for the basket, the tips of her fingers can feel only the crumbs beneath them. She glances at her husband and recognizes a worried look that she is quick to dismiss. She will not be one of those lettuce-eating conformist zombies. Besides, size 0 doesn’t come in a fun-loving package. It is exclusively available in an emotionally stunted boring bundle and she was anything but boring.
“Can we have some more bread?” she says in a low voice, avoiding eye contact with both waiter and husband.
She may have been quick to judge Bread and Butter. After all, they are veterans of the dining experience; pioneering as its opening act before newcomers like Grissini and Olive or Pita and Thyme had attempted to dethrone them. To this day, they remain a bankable starter. She is not one to withhold credit where credit is due.
“Sara…habibte…I don’t think we should order more bread. We’ve had enough, let’s save our appetite for what’s to come”
Ready to counter his argument and sing the praises of those brave pioneers merely singing for their supper, she nonetheless reluctantly agrees to see reason.
“You’re right” is all she can muster sipping some of his whiskey. He looks at her intently. She sends a glimmer of a lip twitch his way, head down. If it weren’t for his grounding presence, she would have thrown all caution to the wind.
Caution. A word that has become an intrinsic part of her culinary vernacular. While you’d be hard pressed to question its presence on signposts in mine fields or construction zones, its presence among pots and pans, potatoes and pasta has raised Sara’s eyebrows on more than one occasion. Tonight, again, she wonders. When did we start getting cautious about food? Certainly not as children. Try as she might, she could not remember her first time. The first time her nutritional virginity was lost. The first time she started counting calories, the first time she drooled over photoshopped legs, the very first time she refused chocolate or french fries for fear they would fry her brain in agony over a few extra kilos. She did remember, however, how she was a fat child- just ask her mother. How she was forced to finish her plate- because every grain of rice had holy inscriptions on it- and she would burn in hell if she missed one…..obviously. How there were children in Africa who were starving and how not finishing her yakhne would somehow make matters worse for them as if her slimming down would clearly fatten them up. How, in the same breath, she was expected to mitigate world hunger AND stop gaining weight because it was a darn pity to have an ugly body over such a beautiful face.
“You look especially beautiful tonight” he chirps
She blushes.
It is what it is. Somewhere at the intersection of Eat Your Vegetables and Don’t Get Fat, she had developed all sorts of teeth…sweet, sour, salty, bitter, savory and Lindty. The latter is a rare form of a recessive tooth trait that expresses itself in intense Lindt chocolate cravings on most afternoons, at least five times a week. It is not well recognized yet but then science has always played catch-up to experience. She had read somewhere that taste preferences could be acquired in utero. That’s another way of saying Anthony Bourdain’s career may have caught its first break in the womb. That maternal food and feeding choices during pregnancy and beyond may play a role in a child’s future taste likes and dislikes. That early flavors are transmitted to fetuses through amniotic fluid and breast milk. Perhaps her mother was to blame for her non-discriminatory palate. Mother had never breastfed a day in her life, preferring to dispense a steady stream of bland formula instead. Mother had chosen candy as a reward for good behavior--following the questionable counsel of a questionably renowned pediatrician at the time. Or perhaps it was her nanny. Her big-bosomed larger than life nanny who used to chase her and her brother with a bucket of seedless grapes, painstakingly peeled, adamant they should have their “healthy” dose of daily fruits (perhaps she was just hoping to recreate the fortunate side effect of a sugar coma-induced nap). Maybe it was Sara’s entire misguided family. She remembers the feasts during the holy month of Ramadan. Her aunts’ self-control seemed to set about the same time as the sun. She had felt the overarching presence of food at every stage in her life: milk as a pacifier, chips as entertainment, thyme as an IQ-enhancer, chocolate as a sorrow-reliever, bread as a social equalizer, rice as a guilt-tripper, steak as a date-maker and garlic as a deal breaker. Intuitive eating to sustain cell function? Not on your life. In the end however, she decides it was mostly her mother. Afterall, she blamed her for so many other shortcomings in her life, what would be another one? Besides, Mother had taught her to be tolerant, open and “all inclusive“. Thou shall not be biased against any particular race, religion, gender or income level. There it is then. Clear as day. The result of social justice theory applied to her taste buds. Open mind open mouth. Before Sara could elegantly conclude her mental rant, she smells it. Oh dear god the heavenly scent. Smaug, the resident dragon in her stomach, awakens.
The risotto arrives on a crisp white round plate with wavy dune-like edges. To the untrained eye, it may have seemed too large for the portion served but she knew better. Once poked, the delicate risotto bomb would immediately part to reveal a rich canyon of melted parmesan coating the grains, engulfing their stems, ensuring they are kept decadently warm amidst a milky speckled sky of truffles. She takes a distant whiff. The aroma of black truffles and burnt parmesan makes her lightheaded. Her mouth is a malfunctioning saliva factory; her face is a shade of pale pink steadily getting pinker. Defying the laws of biology, her pupils grow wider the closer the coveted object gets. Finally that slow waiter man reaches her and places the plate unceremoniously next to her trembling hand. She stops in anguish and waits for him to serve her husband, offer grated parmesan and slowmo a chipper “Bon Appetit!”
Come on come on come onnnnnnn
As soon as his back is to their table, her hand, on high alert since the olfactory alarm had been sound, clenches the fork and dives into a beautiful abyss of flavors. Every bite a succession of raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens. She lingers on some of them for so long she forgets to chew as she ingests. Her pal the dragon, who had seen her through thick and thin, is as delighted as she.
“Is it good?”
“Mmmmm” she says in a daze, barely remembering her other oral functions. It dawns on her her husband may like to share. Her eyes suddenly as sharp as the knife in her hand, she shares a long anguished look with the love of her life, tries to convey her deep aversion (phobia, really) for the communist notion of sharing and release her from her earlier blasphemous promise.
“It’s all yours”
What a winner that husband of hers! She knew she had made the right choice in spite of her family’s objections. With renewed fervor for both husband and carbohydrates, she rejoins her parade of blossoming buds and purring felines. A culinary virtuoso, she initially conducts the members of her imaginary orchestra with the precision of a soufflé recipe: first-chair Ascomycetes tongue! Stage-left Parmiggiano gums! Arborio upper right incisor! Every tune blended and savored to perfection. Soon, however, enthralled by the experience, her cues go awry, leading some of her star performers to play off-key. The result: a botched symphony. Sara, the calorie Maestro, unknowingly relinquishes her baton. That is until the music stops all together. There it is. The Last of the Risotto. The miserable last scrapings of cheese sorrily holding hands with their truffle buddies as if in protest for getting drafted last. Emotional, she stares at her plate as if willing it to sprout more Risotto. It doesn’t. Barren piece of shit. She cant stand the sight of it; she yearns to extend her visa for Italy, gives her ambassador husband her best goo goo eyes but dares not verbally apply for fear of flat out rejection. If she could just explain that her Italian friends had gone too soon; she hadn’t enjoyed their company nearly as much as she would have liked to. And who’s to say when she would delight in it again? Taking some comfort in her upcoming trip to the ocean, she decides not to draw out an already painful goodbye. In a swift plunge of the fork, she gobbles up the last bite of her appetizer. One last look. Still sterile. Down to the last seed. Mother would be pleased. And so would the Muslim Brotherhood. She takes a deep breath, leans back in her seat, her muscles suddenly feeling as loose as noodles and wipes all traces of her Italian affair from the corners of her mouth.
“I hear the ham you ordered is real good here; im sure it will be as good as I hear”
“Im sure it will be worth the wait”
“Im heading to the restroom for a second sweetheart, Ill be right back”
As Sara makes her way to the confessional, her husband remembers how she took his breath away watching her come down the aisle…all nine extra kilos of her. How she had since resigned her position as a pediatrician and gone health-conscious to the point of obsession and how they had both benefited from her new-found bombshellness. She had had her share of struggles but had remained fixated on her nutritional goals, a trait in her he admired deeply and which, to him, reflected her ability to achieve practically anything she set her mind to.
Meanwhile in the restroom, another kind of reflection was causing Sara steady unrest. She is certain she has gained 2 kilos since the evening began. Is that possible? Her face is fuller, her hips wider, her dress tighter. The other Sara is not pleased with her. “Did you have to order the Risotto? Did you have to lick the plate clean?” She has nothing to say for herself. She is tired. She is sad. She tries to look away from her Jiminy Criticket but the fat bug keeps at her incessant, stridulous chirping, inflating her belly as she sneers at Sara, gnawing at her, little by little, as if to trim the fat off of her self-esteem and restore her lighter figure in the process. Jiminy Suck’it.
“Enough!” she blurts out, earning her a few suspicious glances from the stalls and sinks around her.
“Do you think it’s easy?“ she murmurs, wary not to disrupt restroom etiquette once again.
“It’s not!” now hissing at the mirror.
It dawns on her her maxi-mi may need to be educated. In a passionate lecture- strangely, the restroom had quickly emptied of all its occupants- she reasons with the mirror. She asserts healthy food choices have to be fostered within a healthy food environment. A lone individual- such as herself- is close to powerless when it comes to the bigger powers at play. One such power is NOT willpower- though many a source would like you to think it is. The mention of willpower in the context of weight loss had always made her cringe. What kind of power would willpower wield in the face of an aisle full of high-salt high-fat highly yummy processed foods? When you’re already off to a bad start- thank you Mother- How likely is it that you-young lady of questionable upbringing- will resist the charms of Misters Potato and Peanut?
And if these alluring playboys and their equally philandering relatives are all the people with whom you mingle, you bet your fat ass you will Pringle. Therein lies the problem. You see these fellows and their kin are approachable folk, they happily greet you at grocerie stores, they offer to take you to the movies; they even play with your kids at school. They are just sociable like that, available in swarms at the slightest sign of hunger. True princes of the people. Not surprisingly, they have become the Kate Middletons of nutritional tabloids. Lord Cadbury has melted many a heart on national television. Mademoiselle French Frie has fueled many a desire on fiery billboards. Cue the aloof minority of healthy choices. Countess Broccoli in her vintage Chanel. Baron Kale. Duchess of Quinoa. All lounging on leather-free leather couches in the VIP-room of the Delicatessen Club guarded by two identical free-range Eggs (whose mother was probably fed on caviar instead of hormones) who would crack open their skull and spill over their yellow blood rather than let you commoner in. That or accept a mortgage–worthy bribe.
Sara gazes at her angry self to ensure she was listening and continues
It all comes down to money. The food industry has put shit in our food because it costs less to process, store and eat shit than food. Our minister of health has been on a rampage lately. Closing down dairy factories, red-taping upscale restaurants, butchering butchers. The man has lost his mind. Disturbing a perfect balance of turd-digesting bacteria we have grown and nurtured over the years. What is our gut to do now with all this clean shit? It’s a conspiracy at every level. Politicians forage for notoriety. Big Satan and her little ones smuggles poison across our unregulated underdeveloped borders while we chant globalization. Globally fat asses, the caliber of which we had not seen in Lebanon BK -before KFC. Yet, perhaps the most insidious of all venoms in our society is homemade, like hummus, only bitter. This affliction infects unsuspecting us in the womb, continues to spread across our lifetime, becomes increasingly symptomatic as we get older, denying us respite and/or all hope for remission or cure. Love is what we are infested with. Love is the bane of Arabs’ health and food is its vector. In Lebanon and most of the Middle East, individuals who are loved are fed. Your mother will cook for you past a reasonable age; she will continue to ship containers of your favorite meals to you and your spouse in the house next door until her arthritis gets the better of her stirring. Your wife/husband will celebrate you over carbohydrates and candlelight –case in point. Your buddies will confide in you over pints of Arak and obscene amounts of mezze. Your clients will butter you up with baklava and maamoul- that is if the Swiss wire bounces back. Your friends will insist you have a bite-or twelve- of the Mahler they made for their newborns. Even strangers will seek to have a food affair with you. Sara remembers how the market cheese guy always gives her the eye along with free samples of cheese every time she walks by his counter. “dou2i hal kachkaweiiin ya amar” he would say, proceeding to slice the cheese with the unbearable slowness of a hopeful suitor.
Love does not operate alone. Its close cousins, Generosity and Hospitality, are equally ruthless, mutant forms of the toxin. These contaminate a specific host, the Guest. Guests in our society are a special breed. The love thermometer for Guests is constantly displaying a fever. The process by which this happens is a meticulous one. Guests ingest a concentrated form of Hospitality that is distilled over hot coffee and broken over bread with the resulting paste then reduced over the course of a few conversations into a bittersweet Love batter. When layers upon layers of Generosity are folded into the batter, the rich gravy is served up to the host’s--the Guest—coronaries on a platter: Le Coulis a la certain premature death. Just in case a heart attack isn’t enough, leftovers are usually used to coat the belly with a juicy fat glaze to ensure the Guest’s return (He/She would have to return of more when the their plate of self esteem is empty and he/she can no longer find comfort in sex, exercise or the mirror). Sounds dubious but it’s all Halal. Contrary to popular belief, we Arabs have kept up with twenty-first century progress. The age of camels and Katioshas has gone. Israel has nothing on us in biological warfare. White phosphorus white flour what’s the difference! It’s all same same in the end.
Damn crickets. They brought the plague to Egypt. They herald impeding illness and rain in Brazil. Sara knocks on the wooden soap dispenser. Rain! Rain in Beirut is apocalyptic. Despite her dropping in on us every November like clockwork, we seem shocked to see her at the door-every time. Panic ensues. Drivers rush to reach safety lest the sky spit corrodes their metal carcasses- if you knew the trash path the drop takes before landing on their rundown BMWs, you’d understand their fears are not entirely misplaced. Their horns sound off the imminent arrival of certain doom in unison, and just when you think the alert has been registered, a lone long staccato honk reminds you to take only your essentials –your anger your anxiety- as you evacuate. Tooooooot! Leave all expendables. Tooooot! Hurry hurry. Sanity, composure and basic human decency are best left behind. Pedestrians are the most common casualties of Rain. As they painstakingly make their way to the closest shelter, they fall prey to wet mines and shit streams galore. Some of the injured’s shrieks she remembers to this day. Sidewalks are a measly collection of islands scattered here and there, barely visible to the naked eye. If a pedestrian is lucky to reach this promise land far far away, it will usually be a disappointment. The realm of Sidewalk is generally overpopulated, rife with dissent and not above sacrificing one-or two- of its people to the splashing fury of Mount Pothole. Truth be told sidewalks were never Beirut’s strongpoint. The city was not built for walking aficionados. Sara had found herself a military exercise regimen that she executes religiously every day but she cant help but wonder whether the struggle could be more seamless if only the city were a shareholder at Her Health & co. Instead, the municipal health fund was as dry as a grandmother’s vagina. Let’s not move! seems to be Beirut’s motto. No footpaths, no bike paths, no lean paths. Children too were affected by the potato on the couch phenomenon. Rare safe playgrounds, minimal green spaces. Sara recalls her friend’s son asking his mother where the mall was upon seeing snow in Faraya for the first time (ok that kid grew up in Dubai obviously). The point is the only green children are familiar with is the one their father shells out for bribes. From bribing the Mc Donald’s hostess for a seat (yes our McDonalds has a seating hostess… surely you’re not surprised…remember the valet parking?) to the birthday clown for an extra clowny performance. Bribing, or pressing as the Lebanese call it, is a big part of what makes urban planning more of an urban legend in this neck of the woods. Hyde Park? Central Park? Forget about it! Our leaders have put the park in parking lot. Your automobiles will be replenished and ready to pollute after a few hours communing with concrete and their fellow wheels. And the national rears blow up.
Faced with this hostile environment, Sara reasons the only sane thing to do would be to surrender.
“You listen to me you miserable me”, talking at herself. “Our genes are bad. As simple as that. We. Have. Bad. Genes” (once again, thank you Mother).
She contemplates unfolding the napkin fan upon her return to battlefield and waving it above her head, this time to signal capitulation to her mythical enemy. Smaug smirks smugly. She would not stand up to Nature, she couldn’t if she would. It would be like trying to resist a warm caramel-soaked Pain Perdu served with crème fraiche and blueberries. A futile struggle. A struggle perdu. Besides, if she had one fear more sizable than a plus size, it was the fear of Mombies. Mombies (or mommy-zombies) are women in their mid-thirties who, upon suffering a glowing pregnancy, decide to starve themselves into oblivion, losing a few kilos of cortex and several hundred grams of emotional nuances in the process. In the Skinny Jeans Rush, the thirty-fivers sail organic market aisles, cruise gymnasiums, journey into pharmacies and venture into plastic surgery “clinics”. To curb hunger-induced anxiety, they seek spiritual enlightenment in India or a local Ashram on Hamra street offering two-for-one yoga sessions. While beginners may be confused at the zoological and celestial analogies of yoga, they soon realize the recipe for lightness of body and mind is quite simple: a lost dog looks up and down a yellow brick road, meets a cat, a hare, and a cobra along the way and together they reach the Sun Wizard who greets them and grants them eternal sunshine and spotless minds. If you don’t get it, just Om. Unfortunately, most hot Mombies fail to read the fine print. It turns out essential nutrients are just that. Essential. When the brain is hungry, it cannot digest the New Yorker or the Economist, it can barely tolerate The Daily Mail or Mondanite without heartburn. When the hippocampus- that part of the brain responsible for triggering feelings- is on a laxative cleanse, emotional expressions may inadvertently slip into toilet along with that was intended, only to be permanently flushed by said plastic surgeons. The bottom line is the gamut of quintessentially human behaviors is fueled by energy, energy that becomes too precious to consume in a starving state. These souls are not entirely lost, however. In a strange twist of fate, the unique essence of every pre-Mombie-mommy is preserved in her offspring. It appears the detoxed soul is delivered along with placenta and cord to her little one, already hungry for milk. As they grow up, these darling babies exhibit all sorts of high-spirited unrestrained activity. When you encounter a Mombie monotonously pushing a stroller, do note the contrast with the screeching squirming hustle and bustle of a cargo she carries. You decide if karma’s a bitch or not. Sara is more afraid of this than of Abou Kees. It is scientific fact-to her at least- that the Mombie phase is one Acai shake away from a DSM-IV-certified eating disorder. But that’s a whole other story, too long for a bathroom break.
On her way back, she looks as if she is trudging through hot fudge. Her heavy steps and shuffling gait are a bad omen of the main event yet to come.
“I was about to come looking for you, were you taking a bath?” he joked.
She summons a smile.
“It was a mess in there! It took me a while to get myself out”
At that precise moment, his gaze shifts away from her. His neck slightly tilted to the right, he glances at the gliding penguin approaching. Her head instantly and involuntarily mimics his neck and she spots it. Her spotty willpower. Out the window. She recalls her social determinants of obesity sermon to herself and decides she is still hungry.
“Are you still hungry?”
“I am still hungry.”
The cod is sweet. It’s salty. It’s hot. It crumbles at the most delicate touch of silverware discharging an unexpected bouquet of caramel. It parts when gently stroked to reveal a fleshy white center ready to be ravaged. She takes one bite after the other, moaning, laughing, re-discovering a connection with her husband of stratospheric proportions. Halfway through foreplay, she fleetingly notices her taste buds are not hitting the same high marks. She ignores it and renews her vows to the delightful experience, the perfect meal and her exquisite partner. She pledges her love for Life with every bolus. Satiety hits and still she continues. She cannot interrupt the mesmerizing ballet of dancing cutlery, the clinking of the porcelain, the Fork and Knife Pas de Deux, the rhythmic beat of her cymbal lips banging in a wet chime, welcoming the next act into the vast openness of a red velvet stage. In a brisk pirouette-embrace it engulfs all artists, dismantling their intricate choreography to allow for an explosive climax. The orgy in her mouth would put Madam Claude to shame. She blushes, looks down, fumbles around words but determines words are a blasphemous distraction from sensuality. Before she could taste the popcorn and with no intermission, the performers are bowing out one by one. The Grand Finale is heartbreaking: the spoon solo act, swooping down in a dramatic dip, scooping the forgotten Cod snippets drowning in a Miso-Caramel puddle (unlike adult Cods, Codlets cant swim in sweet oceans). A loud sigh heralds the last curtain call. The performance was a brilliant East-meets-West, Swan Lake-meets-Stomp tour de force.
‘That was real good”, he ventures
“Yes…very”.
“I think they actually had caramel in the mix there”
“Mmmm”, she concurs absently
The plate is disgustingly hollow. The barely-there scrapes along its edges are the only witnesses of carnage past. She notices there is a very thin hairline crack along the now exposed bottom.
“Let’s order desserts”, as if on cue
“Are you sure? I’m full”
“Yeah..why not? “ Faithful to the all-too-familiar script.
She brushes off the montage of tomorrow’s self-loathing shots and diligently practices her carpe diem takes instead. Short-fuck it!-takes, long-I am enjoying exquisite meals in a special restaurant I may not come back to for a while- takes and breaks in between takes where the sensible twin she never had watches the scene unfold in disbelief. She pleads with Smaug to make some room, to shrink his scaly tail and fold his bat-like wings in preparation for the arrival of Chocolate Soufflé and Blueberry Tiramisu. She craves the fireworks, another five star show but deep down she knows better. It’s dragon siesta time. All those venturing into mythology-occupied territory at this point do so at their own risk. She cannot stop. She looks for the jolt. The quick fix. The switch that will short-circuit her shame. The all-mighty Dopamine knob. Of course the real knob in this electric metaphor is Sara. Denying the undeniable. That whatever brain synapses would be driven into overdrive by Chocolate and Blueberry would ultimately fizzle out, that any momentary delight would simply be akin to an intricate tailor-made mask, so dexterously woven, that even she wouldn’t know the fake from the original… or would she?