On the stove are little blobs of carbohydrates. Commonly known as gnocchi. Tonight, even M looked a little pained and said [it drove a skewer through my heart] “I’m a bit over pasta tonight…”
Well, TOO LATE. Because even as those hated words passed his beer soaked lips, I boiled up the salted water and plonked in the nudgelly potatoey goodnesses. For as I, and Small Brother [and now the Internet] know – M whines for protein, but doesn’t really know from whence it comes. We were both present, that morning in south east Queensland, when he proudly rejected a bowl of porridge on the grounds that it was sans protein. Small Brother had to grab him by the goatee [RIP] and force his face to the rolled oats packet, where he was forced to cope with the fact that porridge DOES contain protein. Obviously not as much protein as carbohydrates. But that wasn’t the point.

I only realised what a carbohydrate actually was when we moved into a share house in mid 2005 with our fit and uber healthy friends [one of whom goes by the pseudonym of Andrew Bolt] who would look on aghast as I added potato to my fried rice, cream to my mushroom pasta and blue cheese to my pumpkin soup. ‘Andrew’ spent some time staring at the fried rice, and then said “I’ve never come across anyone who puts carbs with carbs before.” I looked at him blankly for several minutes, as my brain clawed its way over rocky terrain.

And this is when I realised what a carb was. It’s quite easily defined. A carb is anything I like to eat. Except raw tuna, which M has told me countless times, is ‘pure protein’. Every time we eat sashimi (something that happens far less now we are trailer dwellers in a sushi wasteland) M will eat the last bit, relish the whole experience for a few minutes, and the expound on the wondrous feelings brought on by ‘pure protein’ coursing through his manly veins.

It does sound as if I have pussy whipped him into a carbohydrate fascist state, but this is not true. He is my partner in carb-land. I am also lucky to have discovered a fellow being in my construction friend, PY, who likes a staple diet of potatoes, cheese and beer. Which is, in fact, all we ate for her two day 30th birthday weekend a few years back. The occasional salad is fine, particularly with added fetta or haloumi.

Basically, the only dietary foible that causes an occasional pang of guilt is the absence of sushi fruit. But this is taken care of by my parents – when I stay at my mother’s, there is always some bit of manky fruit sitting balefully in my cereal bowl of a morning; when I stay at my dad’s sometimes it is fruit season and then I am happy to eat my own bodyweight in apples and blackberries – and at other times of the year I eat beer fruit. It’s not that I hate fruit, but that I am a fruit snob.

Anyway, the other addition to this gnocchi fuelled diatribe is this article, which makes me feel quite happy. Not only is it penned by someone with the fantastic name of Chantal Rumble, it also says that (if you ignore the fruit bit) the way I eat has a NAME! It is called high carbohydrate, low GI… and, the article labels it as the ‘best in weightloss and best in cholesterol’. This provides me with almost as much comfort as a mashed up buttery potato.

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*this title came from a joke in something I was watching the other day; What do you call an italian hooker?