We bulldoze our way through a gargantuan pile of rice and home-made Thai Red Curry. It is 8.30 pm, though I really would not be able to tell you how that happened. I’ve never quite understood the logic of the little man who controls the science of time-keeping; why would he knowingly stretch out our dreadful hours at work, making eight of those feel like twelve, but allowing our four or five remaining waking hours at home and in the comfort of track-pants and wooly socks feel like… two meagre hours?
Also, as a side note for clarification purposes, “home-made” Thai Red Curry refers to the sort of “home-made” that comes straight out of a jar and into the pot. You know the sort where you mix in a can of coconut cream, half a cup of water, and a hearty amount of chicken into the contents of the aforementioned jar, and – VOILA! A serving of deliciously aromatic, taste-bud stimulating, drool-inducing curry to warm any cold soul’s heart is ready for the taking.
I keep my thoughts to myself as I determinedly make my way through my hefty dish; I glance over at my boyfriend’s plate and marvel at the fact that, here, at last, is a human specimen not too much bigger than me in size, with a similar metabolic rate (based on my very amateur predictions, i.e. by basing my conclusion on how soon after a meal he gets hungry… Isn’t that how it’s measured??), who can wipe a dish down quicker than I can. My little champion.
I never fail to admit that I may just have the appetite of whatever in this world has the biggest appetite- which might by default make me that very creature. I have always loved food, and if you and I were friends, you wouldn’t want to be caught dead with me anywhere near a buffet, for the sake of your dignity.
My boyfriend and I sit back in our chairs after our respective third servings of dinner… oh boy, do we sit back comfortably. A little bit of chatter ensues, discussions of the events that have made up our day, all the while allowing our digestive systems to do their thing. Unfortunately, dishes don’t wash themselves, and neither do the pots and chopping boards… so we reluctantly get off our behinds, and clean up.
By this point, it’s almost 9.45 pm.
“Oh boy, almost time for bed!”, I exclaim.
“Yes… yes. Early to bed, early to rise,” agrees my brain. “But you also have to give your stomach some time to digest the giant’s feed you just forced on it”.
And so I again seat my bottom down, this time on our comfortable sofa, and reach for my laptop to surf the internet mindlessly as anyone in a food coma would do. It’s all going well, I’m reading a crazy story about a crazy politician somewhere on Buzzfeed, when suddenly, my adventurous little heart speaks up.
“Hi sweetie… How about washing that delicious dinner down with some dessert?”
“Uh oh,” responds my brain. “Let’s not even go there. She hasn’t been to gym in so many days that I am clueless as to why she ignored my calls to refrain from signing up to one, practically throwing her money away on a weekly basis, but that’s another story! It’s 10.30 pm, she has just had a dinner befitting three kings, and having any dessert is out of the question.”
“That’s ridiculous, Madam, you want dessert as badly as she does! There is no need to play Devil’s Advocate just for the sake it. How would some gelato feel on her tongue… just imagine that for one second. Stop resissssting…” my bitter heart hisses back.
The internal argument goes on for a few minutes. My boyfriend has no idea of the turmoil that is going on inside me, for my face is the image of peace.
I decide to test the waters. “Amor, do you feel like having some dessert?”, I ask him. After all, he is my partner in crime, and almost as gluttonous as I am; I do enjoy sharing the sinful sensation of a rich chocolate mudcake or pretty much just anything else with this human.
He looks up at me quizzically and asks, “Are you hungry? We’ve just had so much to eat!”. “But we need something sweet to wash all those spices from dinner down! I’ll go get us some chocolate…?” I trail off, hoping for some positive validation. I do, after all, realise how high up on Santa’s naughty list I must be placing myself right now.
My boyfriend grins. “Sure, except we don’t have any in the house. Nor anything else you would call ‘dessert’…”.
And instantly my heart is crushed. Why, oh why, did I not stop by at the supermarket on my way home from work and grab a tub of ice cream, or a bar of cheap chocolate?! I should have known better! My heart has begun wailing at this point.
I console myself. Tomorrow will be a better day. I tell myself that I will remember to bring home a cheeky dessert, and just to satisfy my nagging brain, I will also pop into the gym on my way home from work to stare at my reflection as I lift 5 kg dumbbells.
Ah! Woe is the life of a woman prone to late night sweet desires… to appease the cravings, or not to appease the cravings, that is the question!