What I Ate November 16th, 2022: Enough Potatoes to Poison a Body
Today, I got up early and went to 6am hot yoga. I’m still getting reacclimated to working out in groups with other non-masked, breathing people — and I still feel a pretty serious amount of anxiety over it, but there are two places I want to be THE MOST on any given morning of any given day: in a group workout class or in a kinda bougie bakery. And I feel like I’m as likely to get Covid in a class (or bakery?) now as I am in the next few years, so I might as well get back to the things that bring me joy and peace.
Normally, I try not to eat before my early morning workout classes. It’s just another thing I don’t need to take on when I already have so much to accomplish so shortly after being in a dead sleep. I set between three and five alarms each morning on which I am attempting to wake up early. So, you know, I’m losing a lot of time just hitting snooze. (I hit it, on average, twice per alarm setting. So at an average of two snoozes for an average of four alarm settings — we’re looking at a good thirty to forty minutes of intense arm-reaching while mumbling “what the fuuuuu” in the dark. And then it’s go time. Brush teeth (I absolutely loathe myself before I brush my teeth and this is regardless of whether I am leaving the house or not. I cannot even take a drink of water in the morning before I brush my teeth. I find myself unbearable until my mouth is scrubbed to a near-bleeding state; only then can I convince myself I am fresh and worthy), drink water (with like 35 pieces of ice rubble and crunch every piece while standing next to the overhead stove light), find workout clothing by using Iphone flashlight, accidentally blinding Bela on our bed repeatedly, apologizing to her in such a loud whisper that I accidentally wake Nic up repeatedly, close Ollie’s bedroom door so he doesn’t wake up and derail my plans, fill water bottle, then — if leaving house, locate keys and pre-dial 911 on phone in-case-killer-is-waiting-in-driveway, but try to hold phone-in-such-a-careful-manner-so-as-to-not-accidentally-dial-911 unless killer is actually spotted when exiting door while blowing kisses to our kitten and telling her she is beautiful. If staying home to do workout downstairs, locating of keys and pre-dial of 911 steps are left out of routine.
Every now and then, I will make a shot of espresso before the workout, just to feel like my head is really in the game. But even that is an extra step that I usually avoid. Consumption of food takes even longer than espresso, so I just try to wait until I finish whatever workout I am up to. Unless my body wakes up super pissed, begging me to eat. If that happens, I will usually grab a banana (I hate them but damn they are a perfect, easy, portable healthy morning food), a granola bar or some almonds. Today, I grabbed a granola bar. Twas the Fruit & Nut bar from Nature Valley and for some reason, they always taste a little like cardboard or mildew, but I have such solid memories from a time in my life when they tasted fresh & delicious to me that I cannot give them up completely.
I ate that while I drove over the speed limit next to a cop in the dark, snowy morning, trying to find radio music that didn’t make me want to drive my car into a lightpole.
When I got home after the class, I didn’t need a lot of food but I required a second breakfast, so I made oatmeal with cocoa powder, and precisely 5 dark chocolate chunks on top. I tried to stack them on top of each other when I dropped them on the hot mush, so that they wouldn’t just melt. I love the way it feels when my teeth find a chunk that still has a little fight left in it.
After that, I was two breakfasts in so I did what anyone full would do: I ate a brownie. It was really small and it — despite Nic having added chocolate chips to the mix — didn’t have any chips in it. I got inordinately mad and decided I didn’t like brownies anymore and I wouldn’t give any more in that pan a chance. Fool me once, shame on you. I will not risk second-chance foolery. Not with food.
**
Hours later, lunchtime showed up, but I didn’t feel hungry. So I did what anyone still-full would do: made lunch anyway. By the time I had boiled, smashed and air-fried half a small bag of fingerling potatoes, I felt something like hunger. Desire? Maybe both.
I didn’t like potatoes before I got pregnant with Ollie. I just found them so boring. But I thought about potatoes constantly when I was pregnant and have tried to dedicate a solid portion of my plates to them since then. They are hearty, healthy and very adaptable. They have a lot going for them.
I sprinkled some seasoning powder on my lunch potatoes, added some sour cream and then Frank’s hot sauce. At this point, I was excited. They smelled great, and to be honest, I felt a little bit like a magician. The little tubers had been in a bag, rock hard, not that long ago. And now, look at them!
I put all the potatoes that would fit on my dish in a well-spaced arrangement and sat down. I ate them quickly. When I was done, I was absolutely full. But I went to the kitchen and plated up the rest of the potatoes I had cooked anyway. It seemed stupid not to eat them.
When I finished, I was filled with two things. Great reverence for how full the potatoes had made me, and great fear for the exact same thing.
I headed out on a quick walk to pick up Ollie from school. It hurt to walk. Every time the parent walking next to me would drop a little thought or comment, I would respond with, “Oh, wow; these potatoes!” and I knew that was odd but I couldn’t stop because it was all I could think about.
**
Fast forward. Ollie has a snack. Ollie goes downstairs to become a tv-zombie. I begin working again and suddenly my whole body goes cold and my head starts spinning and I’m like holy shit I’m gonna puke. I HATE puking. Like, I don’t think anyone is cool with puking but I hate it so much I would almost rather just swallow it down than let it out. It’s such a violent act. It alienates me from myself. The sound and movement feel traumatizing. I got a bag ready and set it by me and waited for the inevitable. It didn’t come.
Instead, hours of feeling nauseous and weird and keeping the bag by my side passed. I took a Covid test, just to be sure that bitch didn’t get me again. I told Nic I wouldn’t be able to eat dinner, so to plan and eat without me. And then I laid down and waited to feel better.
Nic doesn’t like it when I go onto WebMD (I diagnose myself with lots of deadly diseases when I do), but he often plays a live Q & A version of the website with me at home. He asks what symptoms I am experiencing, pulls info from his brain, crosschecks it with some site online (I wonder if he sneakily ever goes to WebMD!; I’m just realizing/questioning now) and then reports back whether my fears are rational or ridiculous. (He has never actually judged my fears as rational so when I die one day, here in our home, hours after asking him to diagnose me, he is reallllly gonna feel bad.)
While Ollie was showering, Nic came into the bedroom to assist me with diagnosis and I just kept talking about the damn potatoes still and he was like how many did you eat? and I was like Nic, man, SO MANY. and then his eyes got big and he says, you didn’t boil them, did you? and I was like I most certainly did and he was like you don’t KNOW ABOUT THE POTATO POISON? and then I grabbed my phone and consulted WebMD and various other websites, including Igotpoisoned.com.
**
Obviously, I don’t know what happened. Maybe I got a light poisoning. (It doesn’t appear boiling potatoes gives you poison, but just that some potatoes have poison, from my rough, seven-hour long googling session.) Maybe I just had to deal with a light overeating situation. All I know is — when I thought the light had gone out on food for the rest of the day — I smelled gnocchi (please don’t let me misrepresent us: it was bagged, frozen gnocchi from Trader Joe’s but I can tell you that neither Nic nor myself could ever make gnocchi nearly as good as this shit so we will not ever even attempt it) coming from the kitchen, and suddenly, I was healed. I let Ollie climb into bed with me and Nic gave us both small plates of gnocchi. I ate my entire portion.
Only later did I realize what I can still hardly believe: when I thought my body could not handle any more potatoes, I gave it more potatoes: this time, in the form of gnocchi.
So what have I/we learned, as a result of today? Mostly nothing. I look forward to eating and/or overeating again, tomorrow. And I love potatoes.
