Still doing just one spot per visit. No interesting fluctuations with my brain. I guess this must be wind-down. I forgot to ask this visit.
My intestinal tract is slowly but surely improving. I've had to take up examining the toilet's contents after each bowel movement, which is really not how I'd like to spend time, but it's a good way to gauge how well I'm doing. The original estimate of two days turned out to be hilariously optimistic, unfortunately.
After a week and some spare change now of avoiding diary and HFCS like the plague, I've been able to add dairy back in without making extra trips to the bathroom. This is good, because I really like cheese and cheese is in a lot of stuff. I'm currently having a bowl of Blandi-Os (like Spaghetti-Os, but more boring), which at this point consists of vegetable broth, cubed humane chicken, assorted spices, and half-whole grain pasta shells. But I'll probably be a lazy person later today and have a bowl of cereal for dinner. What? I'm an adult, I can do that.
While I was avoiding everything tasty in the grocery store ever, I realized that while I'll sometimes complain about not knowing how to have fun or enjoy things, that's not universally true. I apparently take a great deal of pleasure in food, especially good food. This is perhaps not surprising. My brother considers cooking for people an act of love, and I consider being cooked for an act of love. Both of us probably got that mentality from my mother, who slaved in the kitchen for hours each week preparing and serving tasty, healthy, nutritionally balanced meals. This was despite that she really would rather have been composing music, or reading books, or doing something else. I was (and still am) dense, but I did manage to pick up on that aspect of mealtime, and so good food means contentedness and happiness and "all is well" to me.
Which made this whole little ordeal that much more frustrating, because suddenly I didn't even have that to lean on. And I am many things, but "chef" is not one of them. I can cook somewhat, and I can follow directions (which means I can cook almost any recipe assuming it's thorough enough), but if you want enjoyment of cooking and gloriously delicious food, you should go find my brother. I've never had a meal of his I didn't like. Which is impressive, because on several occasions he has served things I actively dislike. (I tried them anyway and was very pleasantly surprised.)
My intestinal tract is slowly but surely improving. I've had to take up examining the toilet's contents after each bowel movement, which is really not how I'd like to spend time, but it's a good way to gauge how well I'm doing. The original estimate of two days turned out to be hilariously optimistic, unfortunately.
After a week and some spare change now of avoiding diary and HFCS like the plague, I've been able to add dairy back in without making extra trips to the bathroom. This is good, because I really like cheese and cheese is in a lot of stuff. I'm currently having a bowl of Blandi-Os (like Spaghetti-Os, but more boring), which at this point consists of vegetable broth, cubed humane chicken, assorted spices, and half-whole grain pasta shells. But I'll probably be a lazy person later today and have a bowl of cereal for dinner. What? I'm an adult, I can do that.
While I was avoiding everything tasty in the grocery store ever, I realized that while I'll sometimes complain about not knowing how to have fun or enjoy things, that's not universally true. I apparently take a great deal of pleasure in food, especially good food. This is perhaps not surprising. My brother considers cooking for people an act of love, and I consider being cooked for an act of love. Both of us probably got that mentality from my mother, who slaved in the kitchen for hours each week preparing and serving tasty, healthy, nutritionally balanced meals. This was despite that she really would rather have been composing music, or reading books, or doing something else. I was (and still am) dense, but I did manage to pick up on that aspect of mealtime, and so good food means contentedness and happiness and "all is well" to me.
Which made this whole little ordeal that much more frustrating, because suddenly I didn't even have that to lean on. And I am many things, but "chef" is not one of them. I can cook somewhat, and I can follow directions (which means I can cook almost any recipe assuming it's thorough enough), but if you want enjoyment of cooking and gloriously delicious food, you should go find my brother. I've never had a meal of his I didn't like. Which is impressive, because on several occasions he has served things I actively dislike. (I tried them anyway and was very pleasantly surprised.)
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