Cold Comfort

The creators of my favourite ice cream long ago confessed that the name Haagen-Daaz has no meaning. It’s not Danish or Norwegian or Swedish for anything.

Okay, but it means something to me. Apparently, it means comfort food.

Truthfully, Ter and I almost always have one flavour in the freezer, doled out by the egg spoon after a particularly spicy dinner, but the current stash of four flavours plus a box of bars suggests a deeper purpose than mere avoidance of acid reflux. Pictured is the second round of the summer just past; by July 31, we’d already blown through three tubs and a box of minis. Can you say stressed?

I did more than mainline H-D this summer. I drank tea lattes by the super-hot, extra foamy vat. I continually tested the limits of my GF sensitivity with pizza crust, pie crust, cookies and toast made from real bread. I emptied two bottles of cinnamon vanilla Baileys and rediscovered the joy of Amarula-laced Red Rose (or, more accurately, Amarula laced with Red Rose). I was so consumed by grief that I stopped caring about what I consumed. Sympathy and support could only do so much while I struggled to maintain a semblance of normal in a world gone severely abnormal. I wanted to feel better. I wanted comfort. So I gave myself permission to eat what I wanted when I wanted, and if that was a bag of Cheetos for dinner, so be it.

It’s not surprising that what I eat to help myself feel better actually makes me feel worse. Wheat curdles my thought process and gives me headaches. Milk in great abundance inflames both joints and ligaments. Wheat and dairy together ignite the stomach pain that Ter jokingly refers to as “gas giants”. Too many starchy carbs congest my sinuses and make me really sleepy. And sugar? Hey, I can quit that anytime I like, wink wink.

I have to shape up if I want to feel more like myself again. If I want the strength to create a new normal, if I want to embrace my life and kickstart my bright and shiny future, I had better cool it with the naughty nummies. Ter has made it her personal mission to ensure I get enough protein in a nutritionally-balanced diet, but she can’t watch me every millisecond of every day and I’m not so scared of her that I won’t pop that box of Smarties when she’s not around. Which means it’s up to me. What do I want more? To feel better right now, or to feel better, period?

Exactly how cold is that comfort?