‘I’m pretty indifferent to chips,’ My friend told me recently. I stared at him, uncomprehendingly. Personally, I eat carbs in the same way as teenage boys masturbate- frantically, furtively and as often as possible. And being in America hasn’t helped.
Yesterday, for breakfast I had watermelon.
I had to share it with an 11 year old, but we ate the entire thing, so I will lay claim to having eaten at least 10 pounds of delicious red fruit. ‘My goodness,’ I thought smugly as I practiced my jump shot on the basketball court. ‘I simply do not understand why people accuse Americans of being fat. I am literally stuffed with goodness. If I could only get this basketball anywhere near the hoop, I would pretty much be the poster-child for American health.’
My newfound smugness soon wore off- this morning I located the bread cabinet. I say ‘cabinet’, but ‘bread walk-in-wardrobe would be more accurate. Thoughts of watermelon were long-forgotten as I quietly worked my way through half a loaf of bread, 3 bagels and 2 English muffins. (I have recently worked out that anything with less than 50% sugar is quickly dismissed in the States as alien-English muffins join ranks with French fries and Canadian bacon as the US version of ‘foreign muck’).
There is something impossibly delicious about American carbohydrates. And I’m closer than ever to landing that jump shot.*