After 15 months eating only meat, occasional eggs, a bit of butter, and altogether too much coffee with heavy whipping cream, the large majority of my friends were most delighted when I announced that I was returning to the world of omnivory.
But this wasn't even a "return." I NEVER was allowed (or allowed myself) to consume all foods without judgment. Food was always "good" or "bad." If it tasted too good, it couldn't possibly be good for you. So, whenever I was "off my diet," I was indiscriminately inhaling anything that crossed my path, as long as I could breathe. Whether I was hungry didn't matter. Whether it was what I really wanted was of no import. Whether it even tasted any good was no concern of mine. If I wasn't "on my diet" and it was in front of me, I ate it. Furthermore, there was never a bite eaten that wasn't judged for its value in contributing to or detracting from my "health" (read = assfatness). Enjoyment was less a part of the equation than playing the role of obedient soldier or recalcitrant rebel by my eating choices. Jekyll/Hyde. And who was which depended on whether I was "on" or "off" whatever "eating plan" I was pursuing or not.
I see this period of my life as my initial entry into the world of guilt-free gastronomic delectation. Because never before in my life have I approached food, all food, as a vehicle for nourishing myself in an integral fashion.
As a housewarming gift into my new "home" of culinary and gastronomic freedom, my friend Dorene sent me a lovely collection of cookbooks. The centerpiece of this most awesome gift is the 1973 printing of Julia Child's "Mastering the Art of French Cooking, Vol. 1." Seeing as Julie Powell already did the blogging about Julia thing, I'll let that one lie on its own merits. All I can say about Julia is that any recipe of hers that I have ever tried actually worked very well.
I am looking forward to puttering around in this new playground that is the marvelous world of freedom in feeding myself.