The food is far better in Brazil, so why have I put on a few stones since moving to merry old England? I would trade pasteis for mutton chops any day of the week. The meat is better in South America (they actually boil it in the UK), spices at least exist, and the array of colors in a dish is so delightful. Bangers and mash are bland, bland, and more bland. Give me a bauru sandwich any day filled with roast beef, mozzarella cheese, tomato and pickled cucumber and I am in heaven.
So I ask once again, why have I gained? I conclude that in spite of food that I almost disdain, England is bad for my weight. It must be the climate, or maybe I have misread the bathroom scale. Maybe I need a more accurate bathroom scale. They say that these digital scale devices don’t lie, and are more accurate than ever, but mine must be fibbing for sure. It is downright mean.
Now what? I can’t east less of what I already don’t like to consume. It could be a lack of exercise. It is too rainy and foggy sometimes to take a jog or even a nice walk. Give me the beaches of Rio just one more time! Let me bask in the warmth of the sun, get a tan, and look healthy year round. Let me hear a samba that sizzles my soul. Oh, to sip a Cachaca rum on ice.
England is a lovely country. Don’t get me wrong. The countryside is charming and quaint populated with villages and rural lanes. London is bustling and exciting. There are shops, restaurants, pubs, parks, and numerous historical sights. You can’t get bored—ever. So why the complaints today?
My bathroom scale is giving me a meaningful warning—flashing its hostile red lights. So I am going to keep a log of what I eat for two weeks, weighing myself at the end of each day. We’ll see.
Two weeks later: I have a report! I have news. I am overeating as the scales have indicted. I wasn’t facing facts. One ice cream a day can do it—two hundred calories for two scoops. It had become my favorite indulgence and it took its toll. I can either alternate days, give it up entirely, or buy the sugar-free stuff. Big decision. I will go for one serving a week until I shed the unwanted pounds and then assess. England should not be bad for my weight. No place of residence should. I must have better habits and a bit of self-control or I will balloon up in no time flat.
Now that I am thinking about it, I always eat a few digestive biscuits with each serving of my cold treat. That’s going to have to go. Most people eat them at tea time, and fortunately that’s not my practice. The tea thing has not taken me over as yet. Perhaps in due time as a kind of oral gratification substitute for tastier things.