NEED. FOOD. NOW.

I am writing in the absence of food, 16 hours. And it’s hot. And I’m stuck in a medical lab with air conditioning blowing oh-so-unsexily on my left ear and neck. So I’m cranky and unable to nurse this headache and forced to watch daytime television (which, because mine is the God of irony, is about a contest for the best hotdog in Brazil), and my throat is so parched that when I dare open my mouth to curse out whoever so much as glances at me to talk with anyone, I sound like a frog has been sewn into my vocal chords. All of this is making me crave food. Any food. Really. Okra. Grapes. Myocardial-infaction-inducing São Paulo hotdog, anyone? Bazooka® bubble gum. Cheeze Whiz®. Bacon. Whatever. Unlike a pregnant woman, my craving is not limited to just one odd item. I’m indiscriminate. “Feed me, Seymore.”

And because today is Friday (which I have now dubbed Foodie Friday), I am committed to feeding my blog even while I deprive myself of alimentation until these medical exams are over. Even while I wonder if today the guy I called to fix the gas leak will miraculously show up after his third day promising me he would so I can use my stove and cook something decent for myself. Even while I calculate whether there is still time to hit the organic grocery store before it closes. The wondering is probably pointless. This is Brazil, true proof of the theorem that time is relative. I’ll stop; the universe seems to be pointing to a gourmet evening of beer and hotdogs. I succumb. Acceptance is virtue.

If you did not click on the link of the not-for-the-faint-of-heart SP hotdog in paragraph one, or even if you did, I need to explain further. A São Paulo hotdog expedition is not your normal NYC hotdog-stand experience, not by a long shot. No, the SP hotdog mega stand (usually equipped with chairs, tables, a tarp in case it rains, music pumping out of someone’s car) makes me gape at how the regulars at these stands do not all weigh 300 pounds. Morgan Spurlock should have spent a month eating this stuff because it almost makes McDonald’s look healthy. One popular variation is where you pay just under four US dollars and are handed a bun and wrapper. You then walk around the cart and add however many frankfurters (yes, three is perfectly normal) and whatever fixings you want. Sounds simple, but only until you see these fixings: mashed potatoes, raisins, shredded chicken, potato sticks, onions, pickles, cream cheese, peas, shredded cheese, corn, cheddar cheese, lettuce, mayonnaise, tomato sauce, cilantro, chives, raw garlic, roasted garlic, etc. If I forgo the sausage (duh) and just stuff the bun with fixings, this athletic blogger will have covered her normal calorie intake for breakfast, lunch and dinner (which, again, I accept since I am currently starving myself in the name of medicine).

{Side note: I have now broken my fast with Doritos®, ice cream and a coffee. Justification: the exam results claim I am perfectly fine, so if today I am going to give the finger to organic, healthy food, I might as well do it with no class whatsoever.}

Besides ruminating (pun intended) on my possible evening foray deep in the SP culinary netherworlds, I spent much of the day keenly aware that my medically-imposed fast was so much harder than my self-imposed religious fast a few months back. A few months ago, I spent the day feasting on spirituality, consuming a sense of belonging, awe, thankfulness and necessary humility. I felt peaceful. I felt cleansed. Today, I just felt deprived. And bitchy. It felt as appropriate to break today’s fast with food that mirrored my screw-it attitude as it did to break my Yom Kippur fast with a slow dinner at a beautiful restaurant, calmly sipping wine and enjoying every moment of my evening with someone I love and who had fasted with me in solidarity.

Yep, I am what I eat...

Now that I have spent the day being whiny and a glutton of Doritos® and ice cream and coffee, am feeling satiated (though a bit heavy) and am returning to my normal self, I am quite thrilled to know the person I love and who stood by my side for my spiritual fast is headed over to my apartment. I think if I shower, stop to thank the universe for my health and look upon my love, that animalistic desire for the four-dollar SP heart attack will likely abate. Acceptance is a virtue.