Tiny bites of Kryptonite.

I try to eat what folks call "real food." And most of the time, I try to make that "real food" as healthy as I can reasonably tolerate. Like most things, such as my writing, I'm pretty solidly in the "mediocre" category of accomplishment. (Sorry for bragging so hard on myself.) There will be salt. There will be butter. There will be fat. There will be mac and cheese from a cardboard box and Santitas tortilla chips. But there are lots of fruits and veggies, whole wheat instead of white (mostly), organic meats, and American, wild-caught seafood. And I aim to eat a reasonable amount--not too little (as Patrick always says, "You gotta eat. If you don't eat, you die."), and hopefully not too much.

Usually, I keep myself fairly well in line.

Until.

Until appetizers.

Until parties with finger foods.

Until we go to the house of our friends who have a pathological fear of guests going hungry and serve 3 different casserole dishes of dips for about 4-6 people--before dinner. (You know who you are!)

It seems that if it is a finger food, I am incapable of self-control. My will of iron steel tin is absolutely destroyed--crumpled like the aluminum foil just taken off a platter of deviled eggs. Finger foods are tiny bites of Kryptonite inside miniature phyllo dough shells (with pesto and sun-dried tomato). Long after I'm full, I keep picking up little nibbles and putting them in my mouth. My Logical Self says, "Now, Rebecca, you're full. You know you aren't hungry. Just don't eat anymore." Then my Animal Self said, "Food! Food! Food! Delicious, salty, sweet, cheesy, creamy, bite-sized food!" Since we all know animals bite, I usually end up listening to the Animal, for safety reasons, of course.

I really can't figure out why it is that anything that can be eaten in 3 bites or less is guaranteed to be popped into my pie hole if it comes within reaching distance of me. If it can be scooped onto a tortilla chip--I'm all about it. If it's served on a skewer--thank you, yes, I will have another. If it's a tea sandwich--I'll give it a shot. It bewilders Patrick, too. "Just don't eat it!" he helpfully says when I complain (after the fact) that I've overdone it with the snacks again.

Ah, but if only it were that simple. Like many things in life, there's something deeper, something psychological at work.

Psychological smychological.

This is a boring little blog and I don't feel the need to delve into my inner psyche to figure it all out. What we all can take away from this, though, is that I can probably be swayed to hang out past my bedtime if you have good nibbles.

Or, if you want me to leave, put the food away.