Notre-Dame-de-Gras

Friteries 11561 rue Notre-Dame E, Pointe-Aux-Trembles

CONFESSION:  Until, very recently (this past Wednesday) I had been a long-time member of the congregation of Notre-Dame-de-Gras.  In fact, my devotion to Our-Lady-of-Fat went far beyond most zealots...I was practically a nun.  Sister Poutinette, that was me.  I took communion in various forms:  Black Velvets, wine, cider, ramen noodles, potato chips, KD, egg rolls, and the holiest of holies...fast food...the list was extensive.  If I had continued down my sanctimonious path, I would have been made a saint, or died a martyr.

But, this Wednesday, I was born again!  Hallelujah!  I saw the light, I saw the light, no more darkness, no more night!  Or rather, my picture was in the Times Colonist yesterday with all my Heath Challenge cronies...and the headline read:  MEET THE 2013 TC HEALTH CHALLENGE PARTICIPANTS.  Bam!  Instant accountability.  This is for real.  No more worshipping false gods.

FYI...I have 2 appointments set up for next week with my saviours, Jonathan (my trainer) and Heather (my dietitian), and I fully expect to repent for all my sins and ask for absolution.

¡Me encanta el chimichurri de Geoffrey!

Chimichurri over poached eggs...take that Hollandaise!

You can get through life without knowing how to tango, speak Spanish, or navigate the cosmopolitan streets of Buenos Aires...but you simply cannot go through life without knowing the savoury succulence that is chimichurri.

Chimichurri is an Argentine steak sauce...but I use it on everything from warm new potato salad to baked chicken.  It adds immense flavour and vibrant colour to any dish.  It is ambrosial, or more likely the pre-Columbian equivalent.  Panchamama and Viracocha want you to try this sauce.

And, unlike butter, chimi is fresh and healthy...you want this in your fridge.

Mi primo Geoffrey's Amazeballs Chimichurri

6 cloves of garlic
1/3 of a cup fresh flat-leaf parsley
2/3 of a cup fresh cilantro
2 teaspoons fresh oregano
1 teaspoon sea salt
1/2 teaspoon chili flakes
1/4 cup red wine vinegar
1/2 cup olive oil

Just so you know, exact measurements aren't necessary...I usually approximate the green stuff.  I do, however, measure the olive oil so that I can track the calories.  Throw the garlic and olive oil in the food processor first and pulse until the garlic is pulverised.  Then toss the rest of the ingredients in there and combine.  Y ya está...chimichurri!

De nada.

Food Porn.

Gourmet smut.

You know you've seen it, you know you've liked it, and you've probably even used a search engine to find more of it on the Internet.  

Know this, you are not alone.

It's why we PVR shows on Channel 30, why we drive out of our way to go to specialty stores that carry appliances that do very specific things, why we put on protective clothing in case things get messy, and why we buy magazines housed in certain sections of newsstands...I swear, I only buy it for the recipes!

Food porn is everywhere...there is even a food setting on my digital camera.  Is it any wonder that the population is getting fatter?  We are a people who have become food obsessed.

Rather than fight my urges, I have decided to embrace my voyeuristic tendencies and, as a part of this blog, post some racy photos of healthy meals that have satisfied my insatiable appetite.  I may even release some saucy recipes.  Hungry for more?

All I need now is your credit card information and proof that you are over 18 years of age.  Just kidding, my buffet is all ages and free.  Bon appétit!

Goal wait.

And so it begins...

With the introductions done and the fitness test complete...all I have to do now is wait.  Haven't connected with my dietitian or my trainer yet, but I may as well get things started on my own.  Without any inaugural pomp and circumstance, I step on the scale (nekkid as a jaybird).

Actual weight:  292.1 pounds

Goal weight:  109-137 pounds

Okay, maybe I shouldn't have eaten only Doritos for the last 15 years.  Challenge accepted.

Toaster logic.

It is important for me to make good choices.  For example, eat healthily, exercise as much as I can, get enough sleep....don't have Malbec for dinner etc.

Today for breakfast I made an astonishing decision...to only have one piece of bread. 

The 17 year old me could stand another piece of bloody toast!

WHAT?

Now, I've had a theory about toast for a while.  Actually, I've had it since I was 110 pounds and my high school boyfriend tried to tell me that my muscular thighs dictated that I should only have one piece of toast with lime marmalade for lunch.  

ONE PIECE OF FRAKKIN' TOAST?  

The toaster practically spells it out for you...there are two slots for bread...you eat two pieces of toast, ALWAYS.  Don't argue with the appliance, just accept it...no matter what your thighs are telling you.

So today I switched it up...I only had one delicious piece of marbled rye...because frankly, it was a huge piece of bread, and I didn't need two of them.  I did, however, need protein...so I opted for some peanut butter and spread it over the bread, stuck a banana in the middle, folded it up and ate it like a taco.

I still think you should always eat two pieces of toast though.  The exception proves the rule.

(And for those of you who know why I chose to use the word FRAK within this post about TOASTER LOGIC...well done you!) 

Was fitness testing supposed to be all Star Warsy...or was that just me?

Feeling pretty chuffed to be getting fitness tested at PISE...in fact, I was feeling kinda like "ya, that's right...I have yoga pants on...I'm wearing sneakers...I bought a sports bra for the occasion...check me out, I'm all Simon Whitfieldy."  And then I realised that I hadn't been a participant in the Olympics...I had merely watched them on television...but to my credit, Simon Whitfield and I are practically best friends...I once said hello to him at the airport!

After fasting 12 hours the first thing that exercise physiologists Holly and Paula did was ask me to lie down for 30 minutes.  Awesomepants!  That I can do...I'm very good at resting.  Strapped a heart rate monitor around my chest and got comfy on the mat.  After 10 minutes, I was asked to put a snorkel in my mouth (okay, it wasn't a snorkel, it was a mouthpiece attached to a tube attached to a huge machine that analysed my breathing), had a clothes peg put on my nose (again, probably something more scientificy), and told to "relax" and breath normally.  Easier said than done, after just a few minutes I had the worst case of dry mouth EVER.  I persevered, and eventually will find out my resting metabolic rate...or in layman's terms:  how many calories my body expends by doing absolutely nothing.  From this, we'll be able to calculate the number of calories I need to simply exist...and how many I should consume for weight loss.  Part one complete...easy peasy lemon squeezey.

My nemesis.

Part two begins...difficult difficult lemon difficult.  It's one thing to accept your body - I get it, I'm fat...but it is another thing entirely to have someone draw Xs on your body where they're going to grab the flab with a calliper and measure it, before going back in and measuring various circumferences with a tape measure.  Good thing I don't feel sorry for myself (okay, maybe I did, but just a smidge), or I would have gotten all up inside my head about it.  I had measurements taken on skin that hadn't seen the light of day since Spring Break 1992.  I suppose it's a good thing to know your body composition....but no one wants to find out that the majority of their configuration is fat...unless you are bacon...mmmm bacon.

Padawan me suited up for the bacta tank.

And now the Star Warsy part...after being pinched and prodded, I was introduced to my nemesis:  the treadmill.  *Insert diabolical laughter here*  We meet again.  This time, application of the scuba gear involved a halo (there's a first time for everything) to hold the mouthpiece in place.  And I was told to walk forward.  I can do that.  

As I walked, the treadmill would be increased to different levels of intensity - 5 levels in total.  I am of course terrified of this, but luckily the intervals are only 3 minutes long.  Having said that, I had no idea how long just 3 minutes actually was...until I had to exercise for 3 WHOLE minutes.  Ha!  You start out easy and then it gets harder...they didn't make me run or anything impossible like that, it was a mosey to a stroll to a romp to jaunt to a "let me just walk super fast up this hill to get away from that hungry looking wampa."  It felt a little Luke Skywalkery, you know, being hooked up to tubes like when he was in the bacta tank in THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK...without the Jedi part...or the water...or being on Hoth.  So really, nothing like Star Wars actually...except for the tubes.  Oh, who cares...when do I get my tauntaun?

Aerobic Testing complete.

And now for something completely different...

Why yes, this is a children's train

So...I'm pretty much used to taking shortcuts, elevators, escalators, people movers, small children's trains, taxis, golf carts, trollies, metros and cars to get to where I want to go.  In fact, as a passenger of those vehicles I even tend to take on the direction of their parking process.  It goes something like this:  "For efficiency sake, park right next to the door,"  or, "You know, we'll be in and out of there faster if we don't park at the very end of the parking lot."  Because...this is all about being as effective as possible and maximizing time management, right?  Wrong.  I've heard tell of a specific word for this sort of condition...one that most aptly sums up my behaviour in cases such as this...what was that word again?  Oh ya.  LAZY!

That changes today...because today I have my fitness testing at the Canadian Sport Institute Victoria's lab.  I have been fasting for over 12 hours so they can accurately gauge my resting metabolic rate...and believe you me, I'm starving and I'm thirsty and my evil (darling) husband Stéphane is making himself a cappuccino.  Not to sound like a mad scientist of anything...but...GET ME TO THE LAB!