If I had to choose one edible item to spend the rest of my life consuming, dry-roasted peanuts would be the clear winner. Wait. Maybe cashews. No, pistachios…I don’t know, the point IS that I love nuts. (Insert 8th grade jokes HERE.)
The problem is – my stomach most definitely does NOT appreciate nuts. Nope, no sirree bob. Nuts AND vodka? That will guarantee me a trip to the Emergency Room. (No really. Last month, I endured 7 hours of CT scans, ultrasounds and excrucating pain at my local ER. All because of some nuts and vodka. I HATE YOU, STOMACH.)
I know what you are thinking…Sarah, just GIVE UP THE NUTS. But I can’t GIVE UP THE NUTS. I try explaining this to my husband, who is simply horrified that I would subject myself to harrowing bathroom visits over a couple of (what I like to call) “salted miracles”, but he just doesn’t get it. I’m an addict.
However, I am working through my peanut issues. I have introduced a Peanut Maintenance Plan at Casa Whoorl. It started recently when I allowed myself to eat one single, solitary dry-roasted peanut. My stomach did not protest. GLORY! Now, ever so often, I will introduce an additional peanut to the current tally, carefully building up my peanut allowance until the inevitable day when my stomach lining decides to explode. That day will be an emotional one – knowing that I shall never again be able to exceed that specific number of peanuts, but I will rejoice in my steadfastness.
I am currently able to eat six dry-roasted peanuts per day. This is perhaps one of my greatest life achievements to date.
Yesterday, I put eight peanuts in my mouth, chewed them carefully (they were truly delicious), but quickly spit them out in the trash before swallowing. This might seem a little mentally “unbalanced” to some of you, but obviously, you do not understand the Call of The Peanut. Also, I am not the cheating kind, people. I would never skip seven. Steadfast.
Could you do me a favor and send good thoughts as I approach the unchartered double digits? It could be a rough ride.
Lindsey is in her mid-twenties and hails from the Midwest, a land second only to the South in Really Bad Hair. Having spent much of her youth supporting that title, she feels compelled to help others escape a similar fate, and is convinced salvation can be found in department store product aisles. Lindsey hates seeing people with wet hair in public and is suspicious of shampoo that costs more than $20.