washingtonpost.com – When I was about 8 years old, I was at a family picnic, running around in my Toughskins — “husky” fit — and a T-shirt that defied tucking, when I overheard a great aunt tell my mom that when I hit my teens, I would “shoot up like a beanpole.”
She was wrong. So wrong.
To say that I’ve struggled with my weight all my life is a blatant misuse of the term “struggle.” I’ve rarely cared much; I’ve mostly accepted it as part of who I am and learned to live with it. But early in 2016, something changed. I wasn’t feeling great. I knew my weight was up, but I hadn’t checked in a while. Mostly because I didn’t want to know. And I was staring down the barrel of my 50th birthday.
I decided I needed to do something. But it would be complicated. I write about food as part of my profession. I have friends and colleagues who are food journalists and others who are chefs. Working and playing with them means that eating new and interesting things is more than just sport; it’s my job.
And I love my job.
This is more than just a blog post, this is a got damn food bloggers manual right here