I’m one of those strange people who actually reads cookbooks, page by page, cover to cover. My husband considers this a very strange habit but then again he doesn’t get the same thing out of reading them that I do: I can practically taste each recipe as I read it.

I can look through the ingredients and know approximately what flavors will be in the forefront and which will act as undernotes. I can imagine a recipe’s “mouth feel”, its textures and density, the heft of each bite on my spoon or fork. I almost always know, without having even cooked a recipe yet, whether it’s something I’m going to like or not.

Being able to call to mind a particular food I’m in the mood for, and the pleasure of experiencing what I’d imagined, is what derails my efforts at dieting over and over again.

I don’t, for instance, find myself imagining a big leafy salad misted lightly with lemon juice. I don’t think I have ever once in my life craved grilled skinless chicken breasts so tough you need a Swiss Army knife to cut through them, or a plate full of of steamed broccoli and brown rice. And the only time I even think of cottage cheese and cantaloupes is when I look at my naked self in the mirror.

I like spice. I like sauteed onions and garlic and the bright bites of fresh basil. I like the feel of my teeth crunching into the of a baguette, then the slow, yeasty aroma that wafts up a I tear into the light center. I like the heavy, smoky flavor of slow-roasted meats; the creamy, dense tang of good cheese; the musky nuttiness of sesame oil; the sibilant whisper of noodles plucked from steaming broth and slurped through my lips.

I’ve often suspected that if I could find a diet plan that incorporates these tastes while also being low in fat and calories, I might just be able to stick with that diet. And, it turns out, I’m not alone, although it’s not clear whether being overweight is the cause or the result of this need for toothsome tastes:

New research indicates that overweight people hate bland diets as they have a greater need for strong and intense flavours and aromas. The right way to ensure that food is kept exciting and enticing is to go big on ethnic food [...] using the spices of the Middle East and India, the herbs and vegetables of the Mediterranean, the succulent fruits of the tropics and the more exotic grains and pulses. All these are, or can be, staples of a calorie-reduced diet.

All of which makes me wonder if Jenny Craig has an Asian or East Indian counterpart. If so, I want to sign up for that plan!

Next time you need a colonoscopy, you’d better pray you aren’t insured by Aetna. The insurance company just announced that it won’t be covering the use of propofol, an anesthetic used to make the procedure less painful for patients.

According to Aetna, the medication is “medically unnecessary,” a claim which colonoscopy patients in New York area last year might not agree. Seventy-seven percent of them were given propofol, which requires the presence of an anesthetist in addition to the doctor performing the actual colonoscopy. According to Aetna, the presence of both medical care providers represents an unnecessary expense.

I had my first colonoscopy earlier this year, although thanks to the propofol I was unconscious the entire time. If my aching buttocks are any indication of what went on while I was out cold, I feel pretty comfortable saying that there is NO way on God’s green earth that I would EVER undergo that procedure conscious. Nuh-uh. No chance. Not even after a lobster dinner and a bottle of Moët & Chandon. No. Way.

So, anyone want to place a bet on whether Aetna sees a spike in patient claims for colon cancer treatments in, say, the next 10 years?

Ever since that prime rib Christmas dinner I’ve been waddling around in my least-restrictive clothing, miserable and bloated, feeling very much like some fat-riddled sausage crammed into a casing that’s three sizes too small.

That, of course, hasn’t stopped me from sitting down with my family at each and every meal and, although I’ve tried to restrict my portion size, I’ve fantasized about telling my husband and kids, “Oh, Mommy’s not going to join you for this meal. She’s just not hungry.” Unfortunately, that wouldn’t go over with my family and might very well set a bad precedent for my youngest child who’s constantly trying to skip meals in favor of sugary snacks all day long.

So I’ve sat with them. I’ve eaten with them. I’ve left the table feeling like I’m going to explode any second, and I’ve lain in bed at night imagining all the food we’ve had over the holidays turning into a large, fossilized lump in my stomach. That, at least, is what it feels like it’s doing.

I think it was Audrey Hepburn who said, just as she began acknowledging her anorexia, that she resented food. Though I’m about the least likely person to ever become anorectic — I enjoy cooking and eating far too much for that — I certainly do understand her resentment.

People who abuse alcohol or drugs have it, in that sense, a lot more easy than someone who overuses food. They know that breaking the cycle of addiction means going cold turkey, on their own or at one of those drug treatment centers. But with food? You can’t just decide “I’m never going to touch the stuff again.”

You’ve got to have food, got to deal with it at least once every day or so. Then, when you do you’ve got to somehow find the self-control — which you didn’t have just the day before — to know when to stop, when you shouldn’t have one more bite. You’ve got to force yourself not to think about it, not to want it, not to give in to the little voice inside your head that quickly begins screaming “Oh, but I only want ONE little bite of cheese! Please? Just one? C’mon, one bite won’t do any more damage than you’ve already done.”

I’m fasting today. I’m doing it to give my system a break and to hopefully purge that huge mass of holiday food that’s been congealing in my gut for days now. But I’m also doing it to remind myself that I can, that I can just say no to food, even if it’s only for one day.

Every time I place an order at Starbucks I’m reminded of that scene with Steve Martin in L.A. Stories where he orders a de-caf double half caf, with a twist of lemon and all the pretentious yuppies, clad in their designer label fashions and wearing their diamond-studded Raymond Weil watches, all say “me, too” because they don’t want to miss out on the latest fad.

Not that feeling stupid stops me from sounding like one of them. I’m addicted to Starbucks. In fact, their Carmel Mocchiato is one of my favorite treats, but someone once told me there’s something like a bazillion calories in those things, so I’ve compromised by switching to non-fat latte and hope that the caffeine sufficiently bumps up my metabolism to burn off whatever calories might be lurking in the thing.

The company’s latest announcement makes burning those calories off even easier. Beginning next month, Starbucks is going to use a sugar-free syrup in its lattes and mochas that reduce the calories by 50 percent.

Of course, that only means I’ll sound even more ridiculous as I stand there ordering a grande triple-shot skinny sugar-free latte without foam but with three Equals, please. But, hey, at least I’ll be saving enough calories to balance out the biscotti I inevitably buy, too.

Since Christmas is all about giving, I decided to give my husband the exact Christmas dinner he wanted: prime rib with a begrudging serving of green vegetables on the side.

Unfortunately, I made the mistake of eating the very same thing. For three days now I’ve regretted my choice. As you can see, that thing was so much closer to rare than medium rare that I wouldn’t have been surprised to find it still breathing as my knife sliced into it. But it was, according to VH, the absolute best meal of the year.

For me, if you’ll pardon my slaughtered metaphor, it was the meal that broke the camel’s back. I am sick of such meals, sick of feeling afterwards like I just want to curl in a ball and not move for days, and really sick of the digestive problems that arise when I actually do something along those lines.

Since Christmas night I’ve been eating nothing but soup. I figure, after consuming that much meat in one sitting, I’m probably good on protein (and saturated fats) for the rest of the year. That’s fine, as far as my husband’s concerned: there are nine pounds of Prime Rib left in the fridge, and he’s laid claim to each and every one of them.

So, how was your Christmas? Did you get jewelry? Pretty new clothes? Sheepskin boots? Do tell!

A friend called me up last night because he just couldn’t wait to tell me what a great gift he’d picked out for his wife. She’s been in a funk lately after giving birth to their fourth child and finding that losing the post-baby weight is a lot harder in her late 30s. She’s been dieting rigorously and using her elliptical machine for an hour each day but really hasn’t seen the pounds coming off as quickly as she’d like.

So what was her husband’s “great idea” for a gift?

He went online and signed her up for one of those “diet meals delivered to your door” plans. NutriSystem, I think he said.

“Isn’t that great? She won’t have to worry about watching what she eats now, and she’s got one less meal to cook!” he raved.

Ummm….NO.

Even if she doesn’t take offense to her husband’s gift basically pointing out that “Yeah, you’re still fat but maybe this will work”, she’s still going to wind up cooking meals for her family while sitting there staring at her bland little box of microwaved food, all the while knowing that she’d be rejecting his gift if she set it aside in favor of eating chicken nuggets with her kids.

This seemed rather obvious to me, and once I put it that way it seemed rather obvious to him, too. So why hadn’t he considered it before?

I suspect it’s because my friend is, unlike his wife, one of those people who really doesn’t give a darn that he’s carrying 35 extra pounds OR that his wife is, too. Oh, sure, his wife’s weight bothers her, although he doesn’t understand why, so he figured his gift was just showing his support for her weight loss goals.

“Okay,” he said, “how about if I give her a negligee and a gift certificate for a full body massage at the salon?”

Yeah, because women who feel bad about their bodies already want to display even more of it than usual for their husband and some massage therapist?

I advised him to think smaller. Much smaller. Like the designer version of the knockoff handbag she’s been carrying around all year, or maybe diamond earrings. From what I could tell, he seemed rather grateful for the advice.

Then I asked him to give my own husband a call and make sure he hadn’t come up with some equally boneheaded gift idea for my Christmas because, God love the man, that sounds exactly like the way he’d think, too.

It’s that time of year, and I’m not talking about Christmas. I’m talking about what comes afterwards, when everyone I know will be sharing their New Year’s Resolutions and politely waiting to see if I will share mine in return.

Well, I’m not.

I am NOT going to resolve to diet next year. Oh, no, most definitely not. I will resolve to eat more fruits, raw and steamed veggies and salads, but I’m not going to make a resolution coming out and pledging that I will abstain from anything.

I am NOT going to resolve to quit smoking. No, last time I did that I just felt guilty the next day after I’d lit up and, after smoking half a pack by dinnertime, assuaged my guilt with second helpings on everything… and thirds on dessert. So this year I will improve my knitting skills to give my hands something to do and I’ll make a point of carrying gum in my purse at all times.

I am NOT going to resolve to exercise regularly. I hate exercising. Always have, always will. I do, however, like to have an hour or so to myself daily. I also like yoga. I’m going to try to make a point of locking myself into my bedroom regularly to enjoy both of these things at the same time.

I am NOT going to take a photo of myself in bra and undies and pledge that by the end of the year I’ll be X sizes smaller. I’m pretty darned sure I couldn’t find my camera even if I wanted to, anyway, and I’m not about to charge up the camcorder batteries and do an actual live footage shot. But I am going to start buying pretty clothes that fit me in my current size instead of schlepping around in funky, torn sweats all the time. I miss feeling good about how I look, regardless of what size my label says I am, and it’s time I did something about that.

I am NOT going to resolve to lose X pounds by a certain date. I’m pretty darned good at looking at a calendar and realizing when my goal is so unrealistic that I might as well go ahead and have a Twinkie or two dozen. So instead I’m going to celebrate each and every single pound I lose — even the ones caused by stomach virii or sore throats — and hope that such celebrations will encourage them to stay gone for good.

Feel free to share all the New Year’s Resolutions you make for yourself, but pardon me if I don’t exactly share mine in return. I’ve simply decided that I’ve spent most of the past year telling myself things that I’m not going to do — and then going out and doing those precise things.

So this year I’m giving myself the best Christmas present of all: permission to feel fine about myself all year long in 2008. And what do you know? It’s just my size.

A couple of months ago, we broke down and hired a cleaning service to come in on Mondays. The decision was mostly mine: I’d reached a point where the struggle to keep the house clean, to homeschool and to do paid work online were all a bit too much to squeeze into Mommy’s 14-hour day.

As soon as I found out that I have fibromyalgia, I knew we’d made the right decision. I need to start thinking of my energy level as potentially finite, rather than something which replenishes itself daily, since there are most definitely days I feel wiped out even after a good 9 hours of solid sleep.

The nice thing about having someone else do our cleaning: I feel like we’re living in one of those luxury homes on Mondays after the cleaning team has been here. They change our sheets, they do the dusting and a pretty decent job of vacuuming. Oh, and finding the end of the toilet paper folded into a nifty little triangle is pretty fun, too.

Unfortunately with the holidays coming the cleaning team has two Mondays in a row off. Rather than cancel on me, they want to come on Saturday morning.

Which means I now have to decide which is more important: having someone else clean my house or getting to sleep in.

This is a far more difficult decision than it sounds like, folks.

Having tidied the house, washed and folded six loads of laundry, wrapped twelve Christmas presents, written three dozen Christmas cards and cleaned two cat boxes, I was a bit too tuckered to think about cooking dinner. So I asked my husband to do it instead.

Big mistake. Big, big, BIG mistake.

Ordinarily, I tend to view “man food” as something verboten. It’s simply too fatty, meaty and greasy for my system to handle, not to mention how those extra calories seem to contain homing signals within them that immediately send them to my stomach and butt.

But somehow I convinced myself that since I was tired it wouldn’t really count. What with all the things I’d accomplished earlier in the day, and how exhausted I was, surely my body would give me a pass and not hold the nutritional nightmare on my plate against me, right?

Big mistake. Big, big, BIG mistake.

VH proudly placed a plate of “Man Eggs”, as he called them, in front of me with a hearty encouragement to “Dig in!” Given the huge pile of bacon encrusted with scrambled eggs and topped with melted slices of cheese, dig was the appropriate word.

But, oh, it tasted so good!

Around 2 o’clock this morning according to my obnoxiously bright bedside clock (which isn’t nearly as reliable as, say, a Technomarine watch but was probably close enough), I woke with abdominal cramps worse than any “time of the month” cramps I’ve ever experienced. I started to roll out of bed rather than risk waking my husband with all of my groaning, only to discover that my midsection felt like someone had planted a 10-pound block of cement midway through my small intestine. So much for even thinking about getting out of bed.

By 3 o’clock, my husband was fully awake and complaining about how I’d been tossing and turning for a full hour. I explained to him that his “Man Eggs” were to blame, and thus it was only fair that he was miserable, too.

His response? “If you can’t handle so much bacon, eggs and cheese, keep me out of the kitchen.”

Thought for the day: hitting one’s spouse with a pillow repeatedly is also aerobic activity.

It never fails. Despite dropping hints all year long — sometimes complete with emailed links to specific items, with color- and size-preferences noted — my husband comes to me in the homestretch before Christmas and says he has absolutely no idea what to get for me.

I, meanwhile, have managed to shop for him, our kids, both of his parents and the one member of his extended family whose name we drew last year for this year’s gift exchange. Oh, and I’ve wrapped all of those presents and picked out stocking stuffers, too.

Am I that hard to shop for? I personally don’t think so. If the email hints weren’t enough, my other areas of interest should be completely obvious to even the most casual of acquaintances: computer and kitchen gadgets, cookbooks, gourmet food and booze. Seriously, how hard is that to figure out after taking a glance at my waistline, much less any one of my four blogs?

A couple of years back, I picked out what I considered the perfect Father’s Day present for my husband, simply by observing what he seemed to enjoy most. I enrolled him in a Beer of the Month club, and every single month since then he’s thanked me for it.

One would think, then, that he’d figure out to enroll me in a wine of the month club in return. It is, after all, the gift that keeps on giving: every 30 days or so I’d get to enjoy a new bottle, with an opportunity to check out a vintage or make that I’ve never experienced before.

Bottles which, I might add, most likely aren’t on the clearance shelf, which is where my husband heads every time I send him to pick up a bottle of wine to go with dinner. (Let me just tell you now, if it’s on clearance in a liquor store it means even the winos won’t drink it!)

Come to think of it, a club membership like that would also save him 12 trips to the liquor store, many of which are often in the hurried 10 minutes before the place closes. Why, think of all the gas we’d save!

Hmm…. doesn’t that make it an environmentally friendly gift, too? I’ll drink to that.