food and shelter

Admittedly, I have a masochistic streak.
But that does depend on your perspective.
After ten days in Belgium thoroughly documenting my husband's consumption of (arguably) the best beers in the world, I said it aloud.
"I don't drink beer."
Sure, I'll take a deep sniff; occasionally let a drop touch my tongue. But in the land of malty libations, the sense of deprivation was unavoidable.
Yesterday, lunch was crisp, curly lettuce with ground lamb, homemade goat cheese, fragrant mint leaves, red wine vinegar and olive oil. A perfectly juicy Valencia orange.
For dinner, baked pork tenderloin stuffed with fresh thyme, sweet black cherries, garlic and onions; wrapped in greasy bacon.
Piles of kale or buttery leeks topped with a rich, golden poached egg or a smug avocado at 7am, followed by a second breakfast of that Greek yogurt. You know, the irresistible kind that costs a couple-a dollars per container. Top it with wild blueberries or a square of superdark chocolate and then drink a mug of green tea.
Is my diet enjoyable and healthful, or merely the product of too many well-being articles?
This week, I read “Steak with Butter-Are we OK with this?” and “Rendering Bacon Fat for Increased Flexibility.”
Is it tasty and satiating? HELL yes.
So, why do I leer at my husband's plate of pizza and pint of porter with a weight of deprivation? Why do I hear tales of raw foodests and feel pangs of carnivorous consumption guilt?
“Your deal,” I mutter, slouching over my bitter glass of wine and shuffling the deck of sticky, creased cards.
My husband is absorbed in the encyclopedia of a beer menu.
We play cards and drink.
That’s what we do right now.
Biding our time is what it feels like. Are we too old to backpack across Europe, South America, the Midwest? My adversity to beer is possibly confining us to this place in life. Should we be having babies? Giving our parents grandchildren? Deciding between cloth diapers and convenience? I don’t drink beer, don’t eat bread. Should this limit or devalue our statures in life?

Honesty, like a dagger.

I drink my wine, eat my steak. Lift weights, quit running. Walk always. Keep walking. Play on the swings. Twirl in lacy skirts, collapse in the grass. Eat strawberry ice cream on park benches.
“I’m a bit of a masochist,” I hear myself say, sitting in the cozy beer bar in Bruges, under the gaze of the superstar food writers, connoisseur husband, the ceramic garden gnome.
I drink my wine, sometimes shitty. Eat the sausage I made myself, the local butcher familiar with my orders of hog casings. Go to In ‘n’ Out for lettuce-wrapped beef after an hour of kickboxing nothing to look better in that swimsuit I never wear. Make time to be “creative,” make art, type words.
Read this:
“Live as free men, but do not use your freedom as a cover-up for evil.”
Feel guilt. Feel free.
Eat the chocolate, drink the wine.
Document the beers and vicariously eat the waffles, snickerdoodles PB&Js.
Am I inflicting harm, or prolonging a life of questionable validity?
Am I a masochist?
Yes.
But I love it.
I choose hedonism, education, travel, feeding my community.
Is that self-serving or self-deprecating?