I’ve never been fat. Nor have I ever been thin. Except when very, very much in love. I’m tall, from good old Nordic blonde, blue-eyed stock. But as the years advance, I’m no longer able hide the increasing bulges behind the jeans-wearing faux athletic appearance.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always kept myself fit. I was an early adopter of jogging, aerobics, then step aerobics. I try to do some kind of exercise twice a week and I couldn’t live without my weekly Pilates sessions.
But I love food. My family love food and we all cook. Now son’s at home from university, we prepare veritable feasts every night and sit together around the table, drinking wine as if we were all on holiday every day. This is lovely, of course it is, but it’s not doing my body shape any favours. The jeans are getting tighter and tighter. This is not a good look.
So a couple of weeks ago I decided I’d step up the gym sessions. But instead of losing weight, I’m gaining it. And no, it’s not muscle. It’s because my mind is also playing tricks on me. Due to the increased exercise I eat even more. And I cook even more calorific treats for us all.
Like the blueberry pie above. It’s divine, especially with strong, black coffee. And, as I told myself when I made it and later when devouring it, the blueberries are good for you.
All I hope is that when son leaves us for his brilliant career in London, and daughter starts her gap year in Finland, I will not be able to justify the baking of cinnamon buns, blueberry pie, home made pasta or Dauphinoise potatoes anymore and will lose my appetite as I pine for my grown up brood.