The flight of the Swedish chef was in full force the last 48 hours. Cabbage heads flew with wild abandon as I recklessly attempted raw recipe after raw recipe, paying no heed to back pain caused by long hours standing on a cold tile kitchen floor, no heed to a dog bloated with the consumption of stray nuts and sprouted berries; dried kale leaves and banana peels were ground into the floor; there was no time to pause. I was on a mission. There was no stopping me. In 24 hours I had made:
1. Banana Bread from sprouted wheatberries
2. Raw granola with almond mylk
3. Zucchini hummus
4. Raw vegan ranch dressing made of soaked cashews
5. Salt and vinegar kale chips for late night movies
6. Fruit and nut chocolate bark
7. Lemon coconut squares
8. Dehydrated nuts
9. Chewy raisin and coconut cookies made of leftover almond meal
10. ...I'm sure there was one more . . . . number ten . . . . .
The second hand on the clock moved with the rapidity of my Vitamix blades as hour after hour I concocted some new "must have" . . . stopping only in the manic stages to peel almonds in preparation of my next rush; as I said, nothing would stop me. Nothing foreseeable, that is.
A nap was in good order. I laid to rest in the midday sun, surrendering to a fitful sleep, only to awaken to the undercurrent-like wave of nausea. With the hum of the dehydrator barely audible, I dragged myself from a slumber so suffocating I felt encased in quicksand . . . raw quicksand . . . Finally, triumph over the onslaught, I stumbled downstairs to observe the ruinous vestiges of what lay in my unconscious sleep un-cooking . . . my solitary confinement of utensils and appliances. Georgia, the courageous taste-testing sidekick in my shadow....
As I glanced around the culinary suite, my eyes rested on chopped coldslaw, soaked grains, and sprouted nuts, when [aghast] stomach involuntarily lurched, jumped right into my throat, accompanied with a wild heat that could cook a bean beyond 105 degrees and thus label me a non-purist. One must be careful when treading this path of raw veganism. A sun ray just 2 degrees hotter than the infinite enzyme-cooking determinant was enough to throw all your hard work into the toilet.
The impact was clear. Anything, anything at all that I had eaten in these last 19 days of hard core raw was enough to make my eyes water and threaten "vomit." I would not, could not, contemplate so much as a carrot entering my system. No nut mylks or dips, no spiralized veggies and mock patés. Nothing. My system revolted against the very concept of something cold, like a vegan being offered a rare steak.
What's a Raw Girl to Do?
Bread. The answer was clear. The only item to ease this poor belly was bread, and lots of it. Pumpernickel remained from the party here last weekend. Gone. Then onto the processed white pitas, and non-vegan spinach dip. Before long I had thawed veggie burgers and dived into the milk chocolate Godivas. Potatoes were cooked far beyond tender and a trip to Tim Hortin's was made. And then Quickie Mart, and yes . . . Little Caesars. The code had been broken and the demands of a system 20 days deprived threw my limbs into action . . . like a pilot crashed out in an Egyptian desert, driven mad with the craving for water.
What can I say? In the throes of deprivation, the body will do what it must to survive. To fight back is to wrestle against the very laws of nature. And who am I . . . who am I to even go there . . . this lowly peace-loving yogini. An innocent in this unfamiliar terrain of enzymatic obsession. Who am I.
Fallen from a state of raw grace . . .