What you eat and drink in the twilight zone between Christmas and New Year’s Eve
Adeline loves eating, a lot and often, both at home and out. Usually that goes well, but sometimes it doesn’t. This week she finds herself in the twilight zone.
It’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday. A perfectly normal Wednesday, not to be confused with a special Wednesday. So breakfast can simply consist of some yogurt with blueberries and granola; there’s no need for a link scrambled egg with wild salmon. It’s Sunday. It’s Wednesday. I repeat it like a kind of mantra, because otherwise I haven’t the faintest idea where I am or what I’m supposed to do.
Saturated fat
On Christmas Eve I ate stew at my father-in-law’s, on Christmas Day I enjoyed seven courses and an impressive wine pairing, and on Boxing Day it was time for breakfast with the family, where I surprised myself by going back for seconds. I spent the rest of Boxing Day at my sister-in-law’s, where her cooking drive comes from the Surinamese side of her family, so we ate lamb and salmon, Brussels sprouts and green beans and colorful roasted carrots, plus poached pears, fried potatoes and mash. A cheese board afterwards, followed by Eton Mess.
I still have no idea why she asked me to bring soup for starters and bread with spreads, but the theme of our feast was: saturated fat. The evening before Christmas Eve also felt like a sort of Christmas Eve, so there was cheese fondue accompanied by wine. And before that it was the weekend, which had already kicked off on Thursday with a small office party whose theme turned out to be alcohol and pizza, so there you have it. It’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday.
Who is this woman?
I thought nobody knew exactly how I felt until I saw Rocher’s tweet. He calls this period the twilight zone between Christmas and New Year’s Eve. I have no idea what time it is, whether I’m supposed to work, whether the dog has been taken out, or whether I even gave the poor thing a bowl of food this morning, so I give him a little more just to be safe. At eleven I feel like having a good glass of wine. At noon I wouldn’t say no to a basted and drizzled beef tenderloin. Somewhere in the distance I also feel the need for vegetables to balance out all the saturated fat. Sometimes I drink beer because I’ve had enough of Chardonnay. Who is this woman? I don’t know who I am anymore.
Never anything in moderation
Did you know that in this twilight zone you gain only 0.2 to 0.9 kilos? I suspect these are misleading averages, where I’m generously represented by eating double desserts while my neighbor secretly started jogging in between meals. It’s Wednesday. It’s Wednesday.
Tomorrow I’ll treat it like a normal Thursday, except that in the afternoon I’ll join friends with whom our shared trait is that we never do anything in moderation (I can recommend this kind of friend to anyone). On Friday I’ll stop by Grandpa and Grandma’s, bringing plenty of Zeeuwse bolussen, and then I’ll simply spend the entire evening eating and drinking, because it’s not Wednesday at all—it’s an all-devouring, all-consuming holiday that lasts two weeks this year. Champagne, anyone?
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