Too much on your plate?

What do you do when you have too much on your plate? 

Take something off of it, right? I’ve got a busy day and had to prioritize and exercise won out over a new blog post.

Speaking of plate, I thought I’d share this little post I wrote about an evening of “cheating” with some Italian. I love Italian food. It’s amazing and delicious and satisfying to all my senses. And since I’m still working on losing a few more pounds before our spring vacation, I’m changing up the menu just a bit.

I’m making turkey Bolognese (heating up would be more accurate) and having it with zoodles and broccoli, instead of pasta and garlic bread … #notthesame

I substitute zoodles for noodles

Here’s the post I wrote about my “one-night stand”…

We need to talk… and, you might want to sit down for this.

I didn’t mean for this to happen, but last night I cheated. I know, I’m sorry! I couldn’t help myself. I had every intention of staying loyal, but this Italian overtook my good senses.

From the second I walked into the place, I could feel my resolve fading away. All of my senses came alive as the aroma of sweet, sensual garlic filled the air. I told myself to stay strong, but the offering of warm fresh bread and a bowl of garlic soaked olive oil were dangled in front of me like Anteros, the Italian God of love and passion, and I was sucked in.

How could I resist such beauty? I told myself, “there’s nothing wrong with looking, right?” but set out to devour the feast in front of me, as I perused the menu. I know I said I would be faithful, and really I meant to, but somehow I got caught up in the moment.

In a show of strength, I decided on the Bolognese over grilled vegetables.

But when the moment came I blurted out “I’ll have the stuffed shells with Bolognese please, and a glass of cabernet”… knowing there was no turning back.

I will admit, I enjoyed every delectable mouthful, and I’m probably over sharing. But I want you to understand this was a one-night thing. I have already suffered the consequences of my actions.

As I lay in bed with my belly bloated and reeking of garlic, I felt miserable. The Italian was haunting me like a lover who didn’t realize this was just a one-time deal. Embarrassed by unladylike belching for hours, and a fitful night of sleep, I knew I had to fess up this morning.

So, please forgive me. While it was fun and self-indulgent, I just threw away the Italian’s number.

I hope you got a little chuckle out of today’s re-post. I’m off to go make a plate of “not as good as Estelle’s Bolognese” on a pile of zucchini noodles with a side of garlic broccoli.

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