What’s worse is that the whole thing has become more than a little masochistic. It’s gotten to the point that on my off-days now, I like to plop down in front of the TV, turn on the Food Network and make myself cry. The only explanation I can give as to WHY I’m doing this is that on some very basic, primordial level, I enjoy the pain of self-torture. Last week, Paula made FRIED biscuits filled with honey butter and a KRISPY KREME DONUT BREAD PUDDING. No shit. Bobby Flay fired up his grill for a brunch party and banged out an order of grilled corn muffins with blueberry butter and a thick-cut BBQ ham steak. Rachel "Bain-of-my-Existence" Ray even got me with her freakin' eggplant parm sandwich. She proclaimed the menu-item to be guilt-free, because the eggplant is baked and not fried, and then proceeded to SMOTHER it with melted mozzarella cheese.
Basically, I have another week of this nonsense and then I get a little bit of a break. And you had better believe I am going to enjoy it. My one saving grace, in such sad, low times as these, is to fantasize about what I'll eat the day after the fight. I generally don't feel like eating ANYTHING immediately after a bout because my stomach is about the size of a small lemon and I’m so charged with adrenaline I want to run screaming through the streets. But the morning after (if I’m not too punch drunk) is binge-heaven.
I had to work the morning after my very first fight. I came into the office and immediately headed back out to the Red Stone pizzeria down the block. I had them make me the most glorious bacon, egg and cheese on a croissant. I think I actually requested that they put extra grease down on the griddle. For lunch, I ordered Chinese: a crispy, scallion pancake, sesame chicken and white rice. That night, Fire hosted a fight party in the deep, deep depths of Brooklyn. On our way out, while stopped in Billyburg for groceries and booze, I made a quick trip to this nameless Mexican take-out joint and stuffed two freakin’ delicious pork tacos into my pie-hole. Then we hit the party and I ate my weight in hot-dogs and mac and cheese.
The day after the January fight, I took myself to Cup in Astoria and ordered the most disgusting burger on the menu: something topped with a pork product, a cheese product and a fried vegetable product. Before class the next morning, I hit Au Bon Pain for a French toast bagel with cream cheese. The French toast bagel, in my esteem, is the single best 20th century bakery hybrid. Better even than those chocolate-cheesecake muffins. Bagel purists will no doubt argue that a bagel is a bagel and French toast is French toast and never the twain shall meet--but it’s a moot point. They've met, it's love, and what God has brought together let no man tear asunder.
Right now, I’m thinking pizza next week. At least two large slices, possibly 4. Let me tell you it has been A HOT MINUTE since my last slice. I always know I haven’t had pizza in a while when every Ray I pass--be he Famous, Original or otherwise--smells like a Naples back-alley. And I’m not talking sewage and-fish-offal here; the aroma to which I refer is that of fresh San Marzano tomato sauce, milky mozzarella di buffalo and a yeasty, small-batch dough that cooks up both perfectly crisp and impeccably chewy.
However, Chinese seems to my thing: I ate it again after the April fight, that time with a side of sushi. I may go back to Red Stone as my grilled grease sandwich was pretty damned delicious. Really anything fried, stuffed or partially hydrogenated is fair game. The other idea is to simply high-tail it the hell outta Dodge on Monday, head up to Beantown where I can lounge (bikini-clad for the first time in a decade) by the North End pool, pop a couple Modern cannolis, suck down some Indian pudding from Union Oyster House and dig into a giant bowl of pasta at one of the hundred Italian joints where my cousin is everyone’s “best girl.”
And then it’s back to the grind. The last thing I need is to regain ALL the weight I’ve lost (by this time next week, approximately 10 legitimate lbs since mid-April) because that would only mean having to go through this AGAIN before the next fight. No, the key is to go as crazy as possible for a very short period of time and make myself so sick that I’ll be dying to eat nothing but fruit for the rest of the summer.
Now, to those of you who are reading this article while shaking your heads and wagging your fingers, I have this to say: please stop, you’ll only make yourself nauseous. Additionally, I need you to understand that I understand what this isn’t: moderation. When you’re talking about big-picture dieting, moderation is of the utmost importance. No food can ever be completely verboten because chances are good that if it’s “off the list” you’re going to want it even more and if you want it even more, you’re going to eat even more of it. That will make you feel guilty, and Guilt along with her cohorts Depression and Anxiety, will kill any diet in less time than it takes to devour an entire quart of homemade mint chip ice cream on your best friend's porch in New Paltz circa 1994.
The situation is only so dire right now because a) food is more important to me than sex, sleep and shopping combined; and b) I’m dropping down in weight-class. Had I decided to fight the Empires at 132lbs, the last three months would have been a breeze. But Coach Lee and I made the decision to try 125 on for size and that meant going on yet another diet. I could have done it the REALLY unhealthy way. I could have been wildly irresponsible and then 10 days before the fight cut everything out, slathered myself in Albolene, thrown a plastic bag over my head and started jumping rope. I could have relied on over-the-counter diuretics and laxatives. I could have spent fight-day spitting into a giant cup. But I refuse that method because it's one of the best possible ways to ensure defeat and do some real harm to your body.
