Ground Hoggy Day

Every February the second my wife sees her shadow and I know that I am in for a very rough six weeks. It really begins at Christmas. During the Winter Solstice and all that jollifying and merrymaking, we go whole hog. Apparently, it is tied to some primeval, store-up-for-a-long-winter, get to the trough and pig out kind of feeding frenzy. Our ancestors used to step out of their caves, sniff the air, freeze off a few nostrils and then run around and butcher a few hundred bison, cave bears and other such fauna. A big hunt would get them through the winter. Now it’s a mad dash to Costco, snatch up the biggest bird we can find, usually one that took his last bath in a bowl of melted butter. Stuffing the bird and then ourselves we would slam on ten or fifteen pounds during the twelve days of Christmas. All the other goodies help out, the gravy, the pumpkin pie, chips and dip, the kid’s chocolate Santas and especially those yummy little pork and lard sausage rolls. Enough! Enough, I cannot stand it. This is about the horrible present, not the beautiful past.

Feb Two arrives. All over Canada and the USA little groundhogs are to-ing and fro-ing, sunscreen in their little furry paws, as they scurry off to decide the meteorological fate of the North American continent. But in my house it is the unforgiving squeak of the bathroom scales that scares the shadow out of me.

Being aware of the possibilities for the day I head out for work quite early. Early enough to cram home a couple of Egg McMuffins, a side order of Big Breakfast, a couple of hotcakes and a gallon of coffee. Lunch is one of those ten minutes or it’s free pizzas, actually it was two of them, plus a couple of cold slices left over on the next table. I figure I’m stoked up and ready for the night’s festivities, but just in case I makes a couple of stops on the road home. One at KFC for the celebrated popcorn chicken and a snack pack, the other to polish off a Peanut Buster Parfait at DQ.

I arrive home, a little nauseous, but content in the knowledge that I have had a little something from the four important food groups; pork, chicken, pizza and beer. The beer? I had that after the Peanut Buster Parfait. There is a pub across the street and it seemed like a good idea at the time. I enter the house carefully. Sniff the air. Not bad. I detect onions and garlic, maybe a hint of oregano with just a diminutive tang of ground cloves, highlighted by the delicate flavour of Spanish paprika along with a soupcon of saffron.

But I’m not the only one with a perfect sense of smell. “What’s that I smell? Do I detect the overpowering aroma of pepperoni? Is that a hint of greasy burnt chicken, overlaid with the rotting flavour of malt, hops and yeast?”

I let it slide by. But then, then dread pronouncement, “This house is under dietary martial law. Don’t roll your eyes at me. You know that junk food will kill you. I for one am not going to spend my golden years pushing you around in a wheelchair. Drink this.”

I’m handed a mug of some sewage-like substance. “From the local sewage site?” I ask.

“That’s carrot, beet and cabbage juice. It will de-toxify you.”

For de-tox read galloping diarrhea, a morning mouth that will singe the hairs off the back of a mountain gorilla and a migraine the envy of every goalie ever hit in the head by a Bobby Hull slapshot.

“Mmm, mmm, that’s good.”

“Don’t put that down, you’ve only had a sip. Finish it off then go sit down. Supper’s ready.”

“What is it?”

“Wait and see. I found the recipe in “Fit for Life - Two.”

Oh God, a sequel. Not only was the first book an epicurean disaster, it cost us millions in toilet paper, Listerine and aspirin.

“Hey, this is great. This is alright. Tastes like liver.”

“Get out of the fridge. Your supper is on the table. You’ve just eaten half of the cat’s dinner.”

Now there’s an interesting point. How come that sumo wrestler disguised as a Siamese cat is missing out on all his health food stuff? For his weight and height he could be a fur coated anvil. He moves just as fast. How come he’s not drinking catnip tea and veggie-flavoured Miss Meow?

“Well, get on with it. And remember, keep an open mind. This will give you more energy, you’ll feel better and sleep better.”

This from a woman who spends her weekends wanting to know why I spend my weekends sleeping in front of TSN. But she is right in one respect. It did give me more energy. After one tortured week of living on the ‘Three G’ diet – gruel, greens and ghastly, I can jump up at three in the morning, dash out on tiptoes, a ghostly, rather portly ballerina, steal out to my secret stash where I wolf down three bowls of Captain Crunch, two Mars bars, all washed down with a litre of warm chocolate milk. I even have enough energy to deliver a huge belch toward the sleeping cat as I stagger back to bed a happy man.