Never trust a thin cook

I do believe this, truly. But it's so hard to really drill it into your head before you bake something. You're saying to yourself, "I can lick the bowl. I'm entitled to it. I need to know if it tastes good and then I need to revel in it to prove I'm not some skinny twerp who thrives off self-deprivation and I deserve it anyway for putting all this effort into food." But then the thoughts come back: "I won't lick the bowl. I won't lick the bowl. I won't even try it to see if it tastes OK. I won't even eat any when it's done." It's like the devil and the angel on opposite shoulders, only I don't know which is which because my neuroses are constantly getting mixed up.

Somehow today I ended up licking the chocolate pan in which I made the main element of a chocolate meringue pie. I don't even like chocolate. In fact, I relish hating it. Not only did I defile that pan of chocolate though ... I also ate about half of the leftover crust (my sister would have eaten the other half, if not more; I know it) and I totally wiped out the meringue bowl. What is with me? It's like I'm pregnant. I didn't even use Splenda! I have been baking for years and not licking the bowl (I'm dead serious (and embarrassed)).

It's almost like I feel that I have an excuse, being this miserably homesick. I feel like I can get away with filling my body up with rubbish. (Ha! I said, "rubbish.") But then the angel or devil or whoever says to me, "Why do you need an excuse?"

And this, my friends, is the story of my life, day in, day out, at least eight hours a day. The lifelong battle with food. I don't think I trust the people who don't wage that war as well.