January 2025

A letter, a list, and a recipe.

Dear January,

It’s not me; it’s you.

Every damned year you ride in on your high horse, waving that banner of fresh starts and urging me to "become my best self."

Oh yes, you sure as hell do.

You waltz in like a breezy New Year's "nope," wearing trim-fitting Prada and telling me it’s time to ghost the bad eating habits that took up residence in my kitchen last year.

I know you don’t mean to sound sanctimonious when you remind me that you haven’t touched carbs since Justin Bieber’s first brush with celebrity. But you do.

You’re worried about me, you say.

After December’s holiday _____ (I say magnificence, you say indulgence), when cheese boards outnumbered vegetables and the concept of moderation evaporated into thin air like the tiny bubbles in all my Champagne, you say you just couldn’t stand idly by any longer.

I believe your heart’s in the right place, so I won’t send you packing (as if I could, anyway?).

And I concede the point: It’s time to break up with those food and eating habits that, frankly, no longer serve me. I do deserve better. You’re right about that.

But I will not go quietly into that no-dressing-kale-salad hellscape. No ma’am. I deserve better than that, too.

Let us, then, negotiate.

You dislike the way I behave when Triscuits are around. You say they bring their reprobate friends to the party, drawing out the worst version of me. I disagree with that conclusion, but I do agree to a short separation period. I’m not, however, giving up the roasted-and-salted almonds. Don’t fight me on this.

OK. I understand that a temporary restraining order on heavy cream, St. André, and honey Noosa is a matter of my personal safety. I agree to these terms, with emphasis on the word TEMPORARY. But you will have to pry the Parmesan from my cold, dead hands. End of discussion.

Yes, I understand. It’s time to put a girdle on the pantry. If it doesn’t spark joy (or at least make me feel good in the “hot honey is a magic ingredient” way as opposed to the “Doritos!” way…), it’s gotta go. In my defense, I’ve had a house full of college kids who have the metabolisms of, well, 20-somethings.

That late-night ice cream rendezvous? Girl, that was a one-night stand, and you know it. It was sweet, but it could never compete with the savory snacks that make me all weak-in-the-knees-going-back-on-every-good-promise-I-made-to-myself-ever. As I’ve already capitulated, I’ll Marie Kondo those fleeting, soulless, salty temptations.

I get it. I get it. I get it.

Fine.

You and your chic winter white suit make a compelling argument.

Even if I long-ago gave up the L'Oréal, I’m still worth it. Indeed, I do deserve food that’s satisfying, vibrant, and enjoyable to make.

So I will saddle up with that beacon of sanity known as Mediterranean eating if you’ll just give me a pass on Dry January, Whole30, and herbal tea. We are too old for that bullshit.

I’ll let fresh vegetables, whole grains, lean proteins, and healthy fats whisper "delicious" in my ear and see where things go.

I’ll make the chickpeas swim in the shallow end of the olive oil pool.

I’ll be discriminating with my full-fat dairy -- an occasional stay in a Four Seasons style ½ cup cream in my soup but no more Motel 6 benders of dumping in the entire quart. Fair?

But I am keeping chocolate.

All the chocolate.

Yes, including those Brookside acai blueberry things. I fucking love them. You should give that pleasure a try sometime; you might enjoy it.

Good talk, January.

Cheers, and xoxo

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25 Prudent-but-not-Depressing Things to Cook in January
(with gift links, where possible)