So, for some unknown reason, Daughter and I are each on the upswing side of our own personal internal weather systems. I’m sure it has happened before, just never so noticeably or in such synchrony. Scary.

So, we’re both making changes, or trying to, at any rate, without spooking ourselves too much. How we look, a little, and not so much with the hiding, and food, some. I’ve been nagging the Gunslinger for about five years that HFCS is the work of the devil, and all those articles I’ve been emailing her finally kicked in. She is now down to maybe two sodas a week. Of course this explains why she nags me to go to the co-op, with its guaranteed cane sugar sodas that I will buy for her with only a little complaining. But, you know, Co-op. With those things.

I suspect all co-ops smell the same, fresh ground coffee overlaid with spices and the cool rainwater smell from the recently misted fresh fruit and vegetable display right there at the front of the store, with strands of shipping carton and paper bag woven through. Exotic and comfortable at the same time, the kind of person I want to be. And no perfumes, no perfumed powdered laundry detergent with built in softeners and bleach and whatever else gluing itself to your palate. We go in to buy yogurt, and come out 20 bucks lighter, or 30 if I give in to the vegan cookies and the Lindor Truffles at the checkout counter.

So, co-op. And steelcut oatmeal, and organic frozen blueberries, and Greek honey yogurt. We read Michael Pollan, and we have all those things, and today we ate a good breakfast. No, we pigged out on a good breakfast. For the first time in the 20 or so hours I’ve been on this not-a-diet, I’m not hungry.

Because. Who else would take a picture of oatmeal cooking? I should have shown it to you all pretty and blueberry-ey and yogurty before we gobbled it, but there just wasn’t time.

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