I tend to metabolize quickly, to the point that I consider it a defining feature of myself. As far back as I can remember, much of my waking time is spent thinking about food. Having a Danish mother reinforced the importance of food; being raised in a culture that reveres Julefrokost isn’t quite sane, or so I’ve been told. Which might explain my actions last Friday, in which I consumed enough food for a bus full of teenage boys.
I admit, it wasn’t the first time I’d overdone it in the food department. One time my uncle Henrik asked my sister and I what we wanted for dinner, and we simultaneously yelled “fried octopus rings” and “stuffed turkey”. So he made both, and threw in some bacon-wrapped pork chops for good measure, because he’s nice like that. After our menagerie of meats and their appropriate side dishes, we feasted on a solid marzipan cake until my aunt brought out a liter of ice cream, plopped it in front of me and declared “If you don’t eat it, it will melt!”. You can’t argue with that logic.
So, yes, I tend to eat a lot. If I had traversed the Oregon Trail I would have been the first left behind, huddled next to a barrel of flour and a sack of jerky. Put in perspective, last Friday’s trail of foraging doesn’t really compare to my previous gluttonous episodes, but seeing as I was out of eating shape, it sure made my gut question my mind. Would I do it again? No questions asked. Now, I think it’s time for some pie.