Nonfat Mocha Please -- but Don't Forget my Whipped Cream

I indulge so you don't have to. Feast your eyes on my satisfied, sunny morning perking up at Duchess with a honey latte and a blondie. In case you've never tasted heaven, a blondie is the cuter, slightly sweeter, butterscotch sister of the brownie. Much like my own sibling, its richness is of a more covert nature, tempting its admirers with buttery palate-pleasing notes of white chocolate, caramel and (at Duchess) coconut. Kindly lick the drool from your lips and try one if you dare; you have been given fare warning -- there may be no turning back.

While it was a lovely way to start the day, it may not have been the ideal fuel for the stamina required to withstand one of our newest teacher's first classes. As he reminded me, "That's what people pay for", he killed us -- only for two hours -- nothing I couldn't handle, but something my quivering limbs could have powered through more solidly had I prepped my body with oatmeal or something of sustenance rather than sugar, butter, milk and more sugar. Ah, hindsight. Being somewhat a glutton for punishment and all things worthy of desire, I never seem to learn from experience when it comes to a + b = c, at least when it comes to anything yummy (men tend to be the most dangerous) -- or maybe I just don't care. I successfully maintain the important equations, like the effort you put into your fitness being equal to the benefits you receive; there are never any shortcuts here and the people who suggest there are tend to be full of shit (and marketing revenue).

One such deceptive shortcut appeared in my inbox this morning; I stumbled upon a hilarity-inducing post from Vitamin Daily Vancouver Edition's finest, extolling the instant results of Nu Age Lipolaser; it sent me into a fit of giggles, particularly the bit about not having "one of those mythical 'fast metabolisms'" and using this contraption to help hone a body worth parading around during bikini season. FYI editors: speedy metabolisms do naturally occur and any metabolic rate can be adjusted (to a degree) with exercise, not magic. Interestingly enough, I was unable to include the link to this wise beauty advice as it must have already been removed from the site. Why they didn't choose to archive such a scientific gem is beyond me; perhaps the writer who included it did so during a cheeseburger coma in the middle of the night -- the e-mail came to me at 2:15 am. However it came to be, it contributed to wellness naivety by living online long enough to do some damage. Quel dommage. The Vancouver spa selling the inane service will have to find other mediums with which to prey on those hampered by unsuspected love handles.

Bikram would smile and simply suggest to those with excess baggage, "no breakfast, no lunch and half a sandwich dinner." The man is a charmer, for sure, and refreshingly realistic. For those whose weight is not gnawing away at their self-esteem and ability to live, he advocates balance rather than deprivation. Clearly, I subscribe to his straightforward, sensical approach.

Tonight, I will repast in style (I hope) and decent company (depending on how my hubby's golf lesson went) at Niche, a bistro recently opened in our building. I hear they serve a flourless brownie dressed with salted caramel and lemon-honey whipped cream; so I expect to be impressed. If anything, at least they'll be good wine.

Yummy Mommy Survival

In homage to my Vancouver nostalgia (which I will always have, irrespective of the recent lack of decorum shown by hockey enthusiasts whose fierce passions could have been put to much better use), it has been pissing rain in Edmonton for a good week now. Such inclement weather here is unexpected and, however satisfyingly juicy the accompanying humidity has made the yoga room, it has been fueling my disdain for this city, which having recently plateaued, is again climbing steadily.

At least I got to while away some of my weekend with amusing people generous enough to include me in their circle. Saturday morning, Maya, Aba and Mommy braved the torrential showers to meet a girlfriend of mine and her wee one at the downtown Farmer's Market for some comforting coffee and perusal of the goods. Soaked, but smiling, we brought our fine finds home to throw into one of my infamously decadent omelets and a chocolate-raisin-pumpkin remix of the cake I made a couple of weeks ago; in this one, as an ode to Jewish honey cake -- just because Sunday was Father's Day and I figured I could stand to show my husband a little appreciation -- I used honey instead of sugar. The result was sweetly spiced, sinful perfection; check it out.

Yes, it looks much like a giant muffin -- my mother would be so proud; one of her essential daily food groups. Deceptively simple in appearance, it was a wealth of gooey goodness and is already gone.

Having spent the bulk of Saturday afternoon cooking, I was more than ready to slip into something a little more glamorous than my Sevens and sip something a little harder than caffeine. Fortunately, a fabulous friend of mine was having a gathering at his elegantly edgy bachelor pad; so, shortly after Maya's imaginary bedtime (which I am determined to make a reality at some point), rocking my choice black suede stiletto booties, I trotted off to wine, dine, schmooze and throw back a couple of shots with an eclectic, entertaining and delightfully inclusive group -- my natural habitat.

After indulging in the welcome reprieve from several nights glued to the couch with my babe and her bottle, I thought about the far too many mothers who allow themselves to be wholly consumed serving the darlings they bring into the world and forget to prioritize themselves. If spewing forth what keeps me going serves no other purpose than to nudge even one mom into taking care of herself, my blog has served its purpose. A gentle reminder that sweatpants are not to be worn as a daily fashion statement (even the designer ones) and manicures require maintenance can enable a lost soul to find herself again. Sure, life can be harried and overwhelming -- but so can unkempt brows. In an existence of endless diapers, sleepless nights, food smeared everywhere and dying romance, self-preservation equals survival.