Reality check: a lesson in humility.

Your favorite fat ass baker here.  I know there’s not much chance of anyone reading this but I feel the need to write about what I’ve been dealing with this week.  Or maybe I should start further back. Two weeks ago.

Two weeks ago, a wonderful lady from a group of some of our best customers approached me to do a whole pie and a whole cheesecake for her. I rarely get to do this. I love, love baking pies. I’m not afraid to say that I make incredible pies. The only problem is, I normally can’t get our customers to buy them! There’s been a rare time or two that I could bake up a gorgeous pie and sell every slice, or even assemble the cutest mini pies in jumbo muffin cups you’ve ever seen. They just sat in the case, growing staler by the hour until we distributed them among my coworkers. So when she asked if I would make a blueberry pie, I was all over it. Just look at this thing!

Need to stop being impatient with the edges.

I don’t have a picture of the cheesecake, but it was Oreo. It had whole Oreos suspended in the middle of each slice, and I topped it with crushed Oreos and drizzled chocolate sauce all over it. The recipe itself is one I normally fill with brownie pieces but Oreos worked perfectly. At least, I’m guessing they did! I was in such a hurry that I didn’t get a picture of it so you’ll just have to take my word for it.

I hadn’t been baking at home since I started this weight loss endeavor. There’s just no reason to, since I rarely host gatherings and there’s no one to eat them. Not to mention that whole self control thing I struggle with around sweets.

So, yeah, two weeks ago, I’d officially lost 16 pounds and was feeling like I was made of steel. I had the dumbest idea ever and thought I could whip up some pastries or muffins and make my husband take them to work. I really want to get better with actual pastry dough, so I tried to make some danish things. I got impatient with keeping the dough cool while rolling and folding and ended up adding way too much flour. So these, while delicious, were too chewy. I think the filling redeemed them most.

There are blueberries and cream cheese inside those!

Also not pictured: chocolate muffins. These two things were very easy to keep portion controlled since I kept them frozen and my husband could just take out whatever he wanted the night before. No real temptations.

I displayed them in my Granny’s cake stand on the counter. This cake stand was the most sentimental item I had in my home. Sure, I have all my family photos from when my mom died, and trinkets of hers, and a few of my baby clothes. For some reason, this cake stand just meant everything to me and I was so honored to keep it. It reminded me of happy times, when my Granny would make beautiful cakes, either for holidays or no reason at all. She wasn’t very bitter or mean then and my mom wasn’t crazy yet. I actually had a family making the memories surrounding this cake stand.

So of course, as per my life being a nonstop disaster, my pit bull decided to help himself to the treats and completely fucking shattered the cake stand. I cried for about an hour over it. I felt silly for crying over a material object, but honestly, this pup could have destroyed anything but that.

A few days later, I was invited to a cookout with my super amazing walking partner (among other titles she holds) and I made Blueberry Pie cupcakes. These cupcakes are made of a moist cinnamon cake, blueberry pie filling and crust from scratch, and buttercream icing with just a hint of maple. I made two dozen but only about four were eaten at the actual soiree, because people are boring as fuck and make me want to stab my eyes out, so I schlepped them home. Why, oh WHY, would I ever do that? Despite my husband’s best efforts to eat several per hour, I managed to eat about 4 myself by the time the weekend was over.

I then had an amazing time getting my hair did for the first time in probably a year. Thanks again to my awesome walking partner for hooking that up, I love, love my hair.

So that evening when I get home, I’m thinking about the weekend and how frustrated I felt. I had spaghetti squash for dinner which was delicious and I didn’t feel like I was depriving myself at all… but I did feel like I had to eat something like that to balance out my day. I didn’t exactly feel like a failure, but it was a major reminder of why I gained so much weight before… BAKING and EATING! Along with the booze and what not..

I just can’t keep this shit around my house. And that makes me sad, but my passion just so happens to be deeply rooted in beautiful, fattening food. I guess I’m lucky I can still make stuff at work but it’s nothing like making things at home at my leisurely pace, with my pups begging, and me not having to wear gloves.

I went to bed feeling really scared because I know I miss my old lifestyle. As shitty as I felt physically, I gotta be honest, that not thinking about food was a fun way to live. Which is more fun? Having collarbones or drinking pumpkin beers and eating pie?

Now I have to mentally keep tabs on my entire day. So I went and put on the clothes that were my “goal weight clothes” and found a renewed motivation, but I was still scared. What about when the novelty of fitting those clothes is gone? What happens if I just have another shitty week of eating and it turns into two shitty weeks.. three.. a year? I don’t want that to happen! I want to be heatlhy for life. I was so happy to wake up and  see that I maintained my weight. So at least, eating shitty part time and eating spaghetti squash the rest, I’d maintain this 16 lb weight loss.

I’ve done perfect today and am sipping on tea to curb late night snacking. I desperately need to go to the store and get veggies and stuff soon.

I am officially a firm believer in sugar addiction. One small treat once in awhile was fine but the rate I was going at only made me want to eat more sweets every day and it got harder to control up until my reality check last night.

So despite saying that I didn’t have any major problems before, I have learned that this diet ordeal may always be a problem for me. If my french pastry dough could talk, it would have said, “say la vee”.

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