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My not having a freakish and insistent urge to cram as much chocolate into my face as possible is one of my many female failings. It’s not that I loathe it, it’s rather that I’d prefer something else. Like cake. I will lower myself to chocolate cake if that’s all that’s on offer, but it never occurs to me to go on a chocolate bender. I am the first to admit that there’s probably something wrong with me.

As a kid, the food stuff I wanted most that was outright banned was peanut butter. Even better if it came with icing. That was the thing I’d steal if left to my own devices, and since the Other Two don’t suffer with my digestive peculiarities, it was easy enough to find: right there in the fridge, next to the almond butter that I was meant to eat.

I would kill for peanut butter if given the chance. It is delicious. I have been known to eat it right from the jar with a spoon. In fact, when I was living in Toronto and Crazy D was living nearby and had keys to my apartment, he came over one day and without my knowledge moved the jar of peanut butter to the top shelf knowing that I couldn’t get at it without a lot of effort. But also knowing my devotion to this most glorious of foodstuffs, he figured that if pushed, I could drag a chair over or climb on the counter to get what I was after. So to make dead certain I couldn’t get at it, he tightened the jar, knowing that I would have to get the super to open it for me if I wanted it.

Sadly, due to the Crohn’s, my list of prohibited foods has grown. So when I’m at home, if I want to enjoy a salad, or some beans, or anything that might have fibre in it – especially peaches in summer – I have to get The Mom in on my plan. Because The Other Two are freaking relentless about keeping me on an even keel (and possibly also having the bathroom free at some point during the day). Gone are the days when it was just The Mom and I, pushing a bit of food around on our plates and deciding to give up and just eat popcorn. Because yes, too much popcorn and I get ill.

And of course, all my friends over here – from Cornwall to Glasgow – know that feeding me is something to be approached with the utmost of caution. Inviting me to a dinner party is inviting potential disaster. Feed me the wrong thing on the wrong day and the dinner party can easily turn into a trip to A&E and nobody wants that.

Though, I’m much less fussy about things now than I used to be. Now, if I’m feeling well, I’ll eat just about anything. As long as I’m not the one cooking it. Bacon and eggs for breakfast? Great. Normally I eat coffee and sometimes cereal, but you know, why not? If the gut’s not frothy, I say, carry on! Or if I’m feeling particularly strong, why not have quiche and salad? I mean, you only live once.

Though, having said before that I’m not as into chocolate as the rest of my family is, I’ve found that recently I don’t mind a bit of it. But that may be because it comes in exciting new flavours now: like chili, or geranium. Neither of which would be every considered at The Mom’s.

But chocolate, and even cake, will never take the place of one of my all time hands down favourite foods: rice. The Mom (and pretty much everyone I know) will never understand this. But for me, there is nothing more delicious than a freshly cooked pot of rice. Doesn’t need anything, though a bit of soy sauce, salt or bonito is always welcome. But a really good pot of rice is miles better than chocolate for me any day of the week.

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