Feast or famine has, for some significant but unquantifiable time, been a sort of personal mantra, philosophically and physically. Go hard, or go home. All or nothing. Moderation, temperance, have never much been my thing. Appropriately, and inconveniently, I am tormented by a residual late afternoon headache, a consequence of such an approach to life.
Like other days of the week, weekends revolve around food and drink; location, atmosphere, company. Early afternoon on a Saturday, there are two typical scenarios in the dining algorithm: a sit-down, formal brunch affair, or, a fresh bagel, slathered in cream cheese. I am, usually, equally sated by either or, aside from that one critical, aptly chosen detail. The deluge of dairy smear that nearly strangles. This is where I practice constraint. Procedural, or perhaps ritual, each bagel, each time, I separate the halves, scrape away the excesses of delicious fat, paint with my portion until, to my satisfaction, the layer of flavor is even and not too much, careful on those moments when jalapeno or chive seem particularly alluring to not ignore those all too critical chunks.
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