The Tanakh speaks of a serpent in the garden. I’m the calorie serpent in the kitchen. More on that in a minute.
I went to visit my cardiologist on Monday, and I’m not happy. Back in July, when I started this whole medical journey for my birthday, my blood pressure was through the roof—and honestly, who could blame it? I’m morbidly obese again. I still drink too much, specifically beer, which seems to be the birthplace of heart disease. As if turning you into a walking foie gras weren’t enough, I’m half-expecting it to give me lung cancer too.
To be fair, beer isn’t my only issue. There’s also cheese. And bacon. And I don’t exercise—because it’s stupid.
Anyway, fast-forward to now. I’ve had surgery on my ass, which is performing very well, despite occasionally being on “autofart.” I had an abnormal electrocardiogram, followed by a “normal for your age” echocardiogram, and then an abnormal calcium score test—hence the cardiologist visit. Instead of just calling with the results, he wanted me to come in and discuss everything in person. I was on time—early, even. He wasn’t.
In my experience, when someone’s an hour late without a word of explanation, it means you don’t matter. So I left. I have some fairly serious anger issues these days, and being disrespected—especially by compensated professionals—lights my candle. I’m also trying to keep my blood pressure as close to normal as I can. Leaving felt prudent.
Bottom line: I still don’t know what’s going on with my heart. I’m taking the position that if it’s truly urgent, someone will follow up. If not, the hospital’s just across the freeway, and I can probably get myself there faster than an ambulance—though they do get better parking. If anything happens, I’ve instructed my wife to sue with reckless abandon.
Now, let’s talk food—and the last two and a half months.
The wife and I have started dieting again. Several times. But as I said at the beginning, I’m the calorie serpent in the kitchen. To truly make a lifestyle change, both of us have to be ready and committed. And honestly, we haven’t been. At our age, though, it’s getting critical that we deal with it.
Here’s the thing: I need to cook. While writing this, I actually stopped to scale everything out for scratch pancakes. It’s a compulsion, sure, but cooking brings me so much joy. Someone should write a book about the joy of cooking, now that I think about it. I’d do it, but I like to use the word “fuck,” so I’m probably not a good candidate.
Even when my recipes go wrong—and they almost always do, to some degree—I love the process. It’s deeply satisfying. Then there’s the eating. More importantly, there’s watching my wife enjoy what I’ve made. That’s fantastic. It really highlights how our meatsuits seem custom-built for gratification. Like evolution ensured our survival by making pleasure-seeking behavior deeply rewarding.
After our big diet a decade ago, my wife got very particular about what she eats. The calories need to be worth it, and I respect that. When I’m restricting calories, I get it—sometimes it’s easier not to eat than to waste those calories on something mediocre. But we’re older now, and our health is becoming more of a daily concern. For me, the awareness of my eventual demise makes me even less willing to give up the things I’ve enjoyed about being alive—even if those very things are rushing me toward the finish line.
You remember The Devil in Miss Jones, right? The 1973 porno classic? I think it’s kind of like that. If, like all humans, I’m going to face doom, I’d rather do it before I die than try to make up for it afterward like poor Miss Jones.
I don’t know why, but food blogging just feels incomplete without a porn reference to drive the point home.
All jokes aside, I realized a while ago how much pressure I put on myself to honor people when they do something for me. Like cooking dinner—if someone cooks for me, I feel obligated to eat it, whether I want to or not. But I don’t extend that pressure to others. In my world, obligating someone against their will is one of the worst sins one can commit against another.
Yes, I believe in sin. That tends to surprise people.
I realized I was unintentionally pressuring my wife to eat what I was cooking, which interfered with her dietary efforts. Kind of a dick move. And as the Calorie Serpent, I can’t take any satisfaction in obligation when temptation and consent exist.
Holy fuck! Did that get dark? I think it sounded dark. But it’s not. It’s innocent. Hear me out: obligation is seriously messed up. It’s psychological force—warfare, even. Consent, on the other hand? That’s hot. Free will, making a choice, choosing to be free. Temptation might feel coercive, but it isn’t—at least not intentionally. Not on my part.
What tempts us says more about us than about the temptation itself. For example, when I’m trying not to drink, walking into the beer cave at the convenience store is all about my temptation. The beer is just there. It’s neutral. The temptation is mine. Coercion is something else entirely. Same deal with my wife.
Now, before I cook anything that might tempt her, I let her know I’m making it for the website and that she is under zero obligation to eat—or even taste—it. I’m equally fine if she tries it, eats it, or completely ignores it. And it seems to be working.
God, I write long introductions. The pancakes were great, by the way. The compulsion is real.
Last weekend, we both made bread. She wanted to try a loaf of French bread in her bread machine; I wanted to make one by hand. Neither turned out quite right. The machine locks you out of the process, so if it goes wrong, it’s too late by the time you find out. Mine failed during shaping—I didn’t get the skin of my batard tight enough, and I scored it too early. The flavor was great, the crust was fantastic, but it came out very flat.
The upside? It’s now my go-to ciabatta recipe. Next time, I’m making the hell out of a Cubano.
The downside (sort of) is that I had to do it again. A one-pound loaf of French bread clocks in at just over 1,000 calories—and since I consider fresh bread a butter delivery system, those 1,000 calories were going to swell like a bowl of Grape-Nuts in warm milk. I also needed to fine-tune my mushroom-thyme macaroni and cheese, and since the day was already a calorie write-off, it felt like a good time.
The second loaf turned out much better. I could’ve scored it deeper, but I don’t bake bread often, and I care way more about flavor and texture than appearance, so I’m giving myself a pass.
I was also tickled shitless because I did most of the bread-making while sitting through two meetings for my day job. When you turn on your camera and your clients see a naked, fat kitchen women behind you, they stop asking you to turn your camera on. Which means fewer interruptions. Time is time. Work doesn’t own it. They get theirs. I get mine. Everybody wins!
When Mrs. OtherDamnCook woke up, the bread was still cooling. That smell never gets old. Naturally, I told her she was under no obligation to try it, and she exercised her free will accordingly. I also told her I planned to refine the mac and cheese recipe that evening and asked what she wanted for dinner. Once again, she chose freely and said mac and cheese sounded just fine. It was a good day—for rational hedonism, free will, and consent.
So, what conclusion am I supposed to draw from all this?
Hell, I don’t know. Never book a cardiologist appointment during work hours? Should diet. Need to diet. Probably not going to. Really need a better way. Coercion is evil. Consent is hot. Bread. Oh, and pancakes! Fuck, those were good.
Also? Go cook something.
Like one of these two fine, completely free recipes!
