The Last Last Supper

I finally solved the riddle of my continuing struggle with weight (a struggle of the 20-lb. variety):  I have Last Supper Syndrome.  The scales (get it?....) fell from my eyes as this miserable month nears its end.  I had decided that I'd use the last week of February to jump start the old weight-loss jalopy by being Queen of the Spartans until March 1, when I'd hew to a healthy and calorically reduced regimen.  Then I thought it might be better to just wait until March 1 (fortuitously on a Monday) and start then, enjoying a personal Mardi Gras beforehand (which I guess would actually include not just a Fat Tuesday, but a Fat Wednesday through Sunday as well).  This is when the scales (get it?....) actually fell.  Since I've been vowing to start a diet at the beginning of each month for the past, oh, ten years (and that's 120 different vows, all made like they're the first one) and since I've succeeded about three times (for my 25th high school reunion, for a summer vacation I knew would involve being photographed, and another time I can't actually come up with but I'm giving myself credit for anyway), the Big Diet thing probably wasn't going to happen.  In and of itself, that's probably not such a big deal.  What is a big deal and is directly related to my big ass is the 120 Last Suppers. 

You don't have to be Judas or the apostle Paul to have enjoyed a last supper, that smorgasbord of leftovers and snacks, drinks and desserts that is ritually consumed the night before.  Under certain circumstances, the Last Supper might include the Last Lunch, the Last Breakfast, the Last Supper before the Last Supper, and so on (circumstances to be decided by whim).  And this is what's killing me (not really, because I'm sure I'll drink myself to death before I eat myself there).  So I've hereby vowed to not have a Last Supper again.  I'd also like to get back to my four basic rules that I used to live by:

a)  Don't eat in the car in case, God forbid, there's an accident.  You don't want to be found dead with french fries in your mouth.

b)  Spaghetti costs a dollar a pound.  Shove the leftovers down the garbage disposal instead of down your throat.

c)  You are not a garbage can and any food left on your children's plates is garbage.

d)  Never leave the house in sweatpants.

For the past few years, I've thrown these rules by the wayside.  I think I need them again.  And I'm wrestling with myself to start right now and not wait until March 1st.  I'm also trying to remember that what's (probably) more important is that I'm a woman with a heart as big as this ass.

The Tyranny of Toast

Every morning of my life, I let two pieces of toast decide what I'll eat for the rest of the day. My very favorite part of the morning is eating two slices of white bread that are lightly browned and a little less lightly buttered, accompanied by a cup of coffee and the daily newspaper. The breakfast that I usually have and actually do enjoy is two slices of diet bread lightly toasted and topped with tomato sauce (because I am the dago my Grandma made me), still with the coffee and the paper. If I've eaten my responsible breakfast, I can stay pretty much on the track of not shoving whatever I can think of into my mouth. But when I give myself permission to have the delicious breakfast, the gates are opened for me to have a fun food fiesta all day long. And that is the power of toast.