Inevitable pasta posting – Phil style!
I like to think that there comes a time in every e-marathon blogger's life when they have to write a post about pasta.
I don't know why, but there's a strange feeling of inevitability in this.
It might be some strange force of nature, like the call of the warm southern shores to flocks of migrating birds.
It might be a compelling urge brought about by a feeling of love towards my fellow marathoners – worrying they might not be taking their carb loading seriously.
Or, it could be because I've eaten so much of the stuff it's now somehow taken over my brain a la borg in Star Trek!
It started off slowly, subtly even - biding it's time.
Masquerading as a helpful running aid, drawing you in with the promises of extra fuel in your hours, and hours, and hours, of need.
At first you don't resist, but then gradually - ever so gradually - it starts to tempt you further down into it's carby lair.
You miss a portion, and it punishes you on your next run.
Then, like a druggie needing to score, it's got you hooked. You want to stop, but you keep getting dragged back in for fear of the downer you get when you don't get your fix.
Gradually, it spirals out of control, until all you seem to eat is pasta - morning, noon and night.
You're trapped, and your repertoire of dishes seems pitifully small when faced with the onslaught of pasta you face every day. You've made tomato sauces and cheese sauces, you've had tagliatelli and spaghetti, carbonara and lasagne, al dente and baked, stuffed cannelloni and slow baked penne with roasted peppers.
Eventually, like me, you hit a new low.
As a desperate cry for help you succumb to the ultimate temptation - the generic pasta bake sauce in the cupboard that you can't remember buying, and don't know what the sell by date is.
You prepare it as per the instructions. You add cheese on top that browns 'just so'.
Then you eat it...
You get your fix, and you relax.
Then, you look at the stained plate, the remnants of cheese slowly drying on the fork, and you fell disgusted with yourself for having stooped so low.
You can feel the preservatives creeping through your body, and the fat from the industrially prepared pepperoni slowly seeping into your system.
It was wrong. You shouldn't have done it.
You feel ashamed.
So you resolve to never again stoop so low. To avoid the pre-made pasta sauce aisle in the supermarket, and only stick to the fresh veg.
You even secretly promise to eat more rice instead, but you're scared it'll be too hard, so you don't dare say it out loud.
This is where I am now. I've recognised my problem, and am resisting the my bodies cries for a freshly prepared past salad
I will not be beaten. I will not give in!
I will not turn into pasta!
1 year ago