I have to admit I experience a significant amount of pride when I get out there and do a sweat-worthy workout in my twice-weekly sessions with my trainer, which in my deductive mind, allows me license to eat a hearty after-meal, then pop a few cookies in my mouth, or enjoy a chocolate bar picked up at the health food store, without a twinge of guilt.
As kids we ate Del Monte peas, carrots, green beans from a can. I have no memory of fresh zucchini, broccoli, eggplant or beets ever appearing on our plates. My mother didn’t like to cook, though she was raised picking from her father’s garden—golden corn and juicy tomatoes, lettuces grown green and fresh, fava beans brought from the old country. She fancied herself a modern woman, or perhaps, she just didn’t have the time or inclination, after running around after five young children all day.
Hari B Poet 