If I want to lose weight, I want to gaze at Jennifer Hudson’s
new slim frame and live vicariously through her by fantasizing that I, too,
could drop lbs like that.
What I do not want to do is count every miserable calorie
that I ingest. I do not want to buy this book. I do not want to hold a “low-cal
party.”
I do not want to eat this well-balanced meal for dinner. I
do not know, or want to know, what that brown log-like thing is. I am
suspicious of what looks like shredded cheese on the fruit salad. And if
someone EVER tries to make me drink a glass of milk, I will shank myself in the
carotid artery with that thin, sharpened fork.
The Forward tells me that “Some folks can eat like the
proverbial horse and look as though they regularly dined on sautéed butterfly
antennae.” I would like the recipe for that, please.
It also says “Calories, calories. The word is used endlessly
until it seems that food is nothing but a writhing mass of calories.”
It ain’t gonna work if you make food sound like an orgy. Only if it sounds like Jennifer Hudson.
