Cupcake

Cupcake: (n) a small cake, the size of an individual portion, baked in a cup-shaped mold.

I was well into my thirties before I started eating cupcakes.

I didn’t abstain from them totally before that time, but I was known to often pass them up, insisting that even though I am a large man, that I wasn’t a “big sweet eater.”

Every time I said that, people looked at me with a massive skepticism.

Maybe that’s one reason I never ate cupcakes. It may not be fair, but I don’t know if a fat person can sit around eating high-calorie delicacies, or if an Italian man can devour a pizza or a black man chew fried chicken and watermelon.

This may sound raciest, but actually it’s understanding the silent racism that exists in our country, which giggles to itself whenever a stereotype plays out before its eyes.

But for a season, I just didn’t like all the frosting.

Then I was invited to a wedding, and while sitting at a table watching people dance, I noticed that most of them had eaten the insides of their cake but left the frosting behind. So I asked somebody at a nearby table, “Does the frosting suck?”

He vigorously shook his head. “No. It’s just too good.”

I was lost on this concept.

So without being noticed, I reached over with my fork and ate a clump of the rejected frosting from someone’s plate. (It seemed okay to do since I was only going to do it once. Are you familiar with that rationale? Of course, you can only carry it so far. For instance, promising to commit adultery or killing someone is not forgiven because you only choose a single occasion.)

But meanwhile, back to the frosting.

It was buttercream.

I knew this because there was a note on the table, written in beautiful calligraphy, which read: “Butter pecan cake with buttercream frosting.”

It was delicious.

Just sweet enough. Not heavy. Not crusty—but as advertised, buttery and creamy.

As the celebrators continued to do their best imitation of dance, I sat there and ate all the leftover frosting from about seven plates.

I don’t know—maybe there’s an addictive force associated with frosting.

From that point on, I had absolutely no problem eating cupcakes.

I realize that such a statement might be regaled as growth and toleration—but actually, all I did was raise my calories, my blood sugar and my ever-growing need for things that are sugary-sweet.

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cruller

Cruller: (n) a rich, light cake cut from a rolled dough and deep-fried

Now I understand.

It’s taken me a while.

Maybe it’s because I’ve been in fits of denial, or even rebellion.

Perhaps I was temporarily stuck in the foolishness of, “It’s not fair.”

But I’ve been worn down. I have survived frazzled and become limp in my comprehension.

To live long, you must hate things.

It’s true. Don’t try to disagree with me.

I remember the first time I put a piece of fried bologna in my mouth.

I thought to myself:

“Yes. This is what God is like.”

But before I could even get it down my throat to land in my gullet, somebody nearby asked the two deadly questions:

“Do you know how many calories are in that?”

“Did you know they make it out of pig snouts?”

Either though neither question would truly deter me from eating fried bologna again, I realized that if I wanted to live on Planet Sensitive, Earth Mother Eat Your Vegetables, or the Third Planet from the Fun, I would have to learn to hate things that were certainly did not deserve my disdain.

Unfortunately the list just keeps growing.

Today, when the word “cruller” came up, I realized it has been many years since I’ve had one.

And they have them just down the street. But I have succeeded in avoiding them—believing them to be tasty, quick death.

But just hearing the word tore down all my defenses, shattered my prejudice and made me want to get in my car and go buy one.

What harm could one do?

Well, one atomic bomb can kill a hundred thousand people.

One bullet in your brain will leave you thoughtless.

And I’m told that one cruller can rob days, maybe weeks, from my journey.

Are we really lengthening our lives for a joyful purpose–or just adding days, focusing our souls to hate things that really, really deserve our love?

funny wisdom on words that begin with a C


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Cookie

Cookie: (n) small cake made from sweet dough rolled and sliced or dropped by spoonfuls

A true case for the value of an eternity is made merely by mentioning the word “cookie.”

Since there is no justice in this lifetime, we all are desperately in need of a supernal destination where all things wrong are made right.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cookies should never be considered bad.

It’s a part of our fallen nature—our sinful demeanor—that has turned these luscious globules, chipped from heavenly clouds, to be relegated to merely sugar, fat and calories.

For those who don’t believe in Satan, consider an athletic gentleman standing next to your cookie jar lecturing you about how unhealthy these godly pieces of divine delight truly are.

Yes, he is Satan. He tempts and then withholds.

There has to be a place where we finally come to the conclusion that kale goes to hell, and cookies dwell, along with you and me, in heavenly bliss.


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Cookie

Cookie: (n) small cake made from sweet dough rolled and sliced or dropped by spoonfuls

A true case for the value of an eternity is made merely by mentioning the word “cookie.”

Since there is no justice in this lifetime, we all are desperately in need of a supernal destination where all things wrong are made right.funny wisdom on words that begin with a C

Cookies should never be considered bad.

It’s a part of our fallen nature—our sinful demeanor—that has turned these luscious globules, chipped from heavenly clouds, to be relegated to merely sugar, fat and calories.

For those who don’t believe in Satan, consider an athletic gentleman standing next to your cookie jar lecturing you about how unhealthy these godly pieces of divine delight truly are.

Yes, he is Satan. He tempts and then withholds.

There has to be a place where we finally come to the conclusion that kale goes to hell, and cookies dwell, along with you and me, in heavenly bliss.

 

 

 

 

Cookie-cutter: (adj) lacking individuality; stereotyped or formulaic

If individuality is merely the proliferation of really stinky attitudes shared in a variety of styles, then I, for one, would welcome a little bit more “cookie-cutter approach” to our society.

Candidly, as long as it’s a cookie I like, I would welcome you to cut as many as possible—to satisfy my appetite and an ongoing hunger in 
humanity.

We might want to stop taking all this time convincing everyone about how unique we are, and instead, insert more chocolate chips into our recipe, making us more appealing instead of appalling.

There’s nothing wrong with being like other people if the way you’re like other people is an intelligent way to like other people (I hope you followed that.)

So if you can get over your fear of being common, you might be able to develop enough common sense to create a satisfying recipe, spread yourself out and bake up something with your life that makes people want to come back for more.


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Chocolate

Chocolate: (n) a food preparation made from roasted and ground cacao seeds, typically sweetened.

Obesity is a bitch, because it bitches at you because you’re obese.

It forces you to think about food more than you need to, which can eventually cause you to rebel about being confined.

After all, I’ve never seen a prisoner who’s grateful for being locked up because it made him eat more vegetables.

Likewise, even though being fat does require some disciplinary action, removing the finer parts of life–for instance, chocolate– is what the constitution may have meant by “cruel and unusual punishment.”

So sometimes the prisoner locked within the fatty walls must break out and be free.

Matter of fact, it happened to me last night.

I wanted some chocolate.

Realizing that a Milky Way candy bar is in the hundreds of calories, and even a pack of M & M’s has way too much sugar, I did discover a tiny piece of delight called the Candy Kiss, which ended up being just 22 calories and 2.6 grams of sugar.

Now obviously, one Candy Kiss is not enough, especially if you’ve been locked up in solitary for a long period of time, devoid of the pleasure. But sometimes you can convince yourself to hold it to three.

Three Candy Kisses, bitten in half, creating six bites of chocolate, is a mind-boggling, soul-altering spiritual revival, with a good shout of “Hallelujah” followed by a creamy “A-men.”

Sometimes nothing will replace chocolate.

I certainly enjoy my asparagus, but I cannot truthfully say that it is related, coordinated, conjoined or entwined with the marvelous miracle of chocolate.

 

 

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Chickpea

Chickpea: (n) a round yellowish seed, used widely as food.

Imagine my shock when I discovered that garbanzo beans were also known as chickpeas.

For years, when I traveled with my friends, had brief attempts at weight loss and hovered over salad bars, I wondered if the garbanzo beans
were calorically low enough to be included in my pile of greenery and anemic salad dressing.

One day I asked the waitress at the local Ruby Tuesday’s in Alabama if they had garbanzo beans. She stared at me as if I were a Yankee who had come to ransack her plantation.

“What’s that?” she said in utter disgust.

So I described it, as much as one can manage wording to verbally recreate a non-descript object.

She replied, “You mean chickpeas?”

At this point, I was trying to be patient. I am fully aware that people from the Southern part of our great nation often have different names for things–usually with a country tinge to them.

“Chickpeas?” I questioned. “I’ve never heard them called that.”

As we were conversing, a lovely woman, gracious and well-spoken, came up and added, “Both names are correct.”

She had an English accent.

I was aggravated. I thought I had a young southern girl trapped in a language faux pas–and then this agent straight from the throne of the King’s English steps over to thwart my enthusiasm.

“See, I told ya’,” drawled the girl, strolling away.

I glanced over at the dignified Englishwoman and said, with great conviction, “I will always be a garbanzo man.”

 

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Chew

Chew: (v) to bite and work (food) in the mouth with the teeth

We often insert the words “good” or “bad” in front of “idea” before we actually consider the merits or the dangers.

People just say, “That’s a good idea!”

Or they dismiss any excitement in the air and proclaim it “a bad idea.”

Here is the breakdown of the word “idea:”

Idea–good–workable.

Ideas come and go.

To find out if they’re good, we have to ask ourselves one question: will we faithfully pursue this concept without prejudice to a fair conclusion?

If we’re willing to do that, we’ll find out immediately if the idea we thought was good is workable. And we have to be honest–if it’s not workable, it’s no longer a good idea. And if it’s not a good idea, it’s no longer an idea anymore and should not be brought up again.

One day I read an article which suggested that digestion, and even consuming less food, could be better achieved by chewing each mouthful at least twenty times.

This seemed reasonable to me.

So the next time I sat down at my meal and I placed the food in my mouth, I counted how many times I chewed it. My natural inclination was to stop at about seven. If it was a piece of steak, maybe eleven. But chewing food twenty times makes it so mushy and meaningless that you want to spit it out instead of swallow it. (Maybe that’s the way you lose weight. Instead of swallowing the mess in your mouth, you expel it–therefore relieving yourself of the calories.)

Chewing is a necessary process so that we don’t choke on the food we so eagerly want to consume.

Over-chewing takes away all the pleasure of eating and enjoying slurping up our treats.

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Cherub

Cherub: (n) a beautiful or innocent-looking child.

It takes a lot for me to become motivated to try to lose weight.

It’s similar to convincing an ant-eater that ant consumption is bad for its health. After all, you are named “ant-eater.” To suddenly stop eating ants not only removes your diet, but robs you of your identity.

I.e., if I am not a fat man, who am I?

If I’m not the guy talking about calories while lamenting my metabolism, how would I be able to find myself in a crowded mall?

My identity is wrapped up in my weaknesses just as much as my virtues. I don’t know why we take so much time to lie, cheat and cover up our frailties, when the
y are obviously going to pop up and announce their presence.

But every once in a while, I do become motivated to try to carve away some of the fat from my body. It usually takes a shock. One such occasion happened when a gentleman from a newspaper, reviewing my show and describing my face, wrote: “He is a chubby fellow with cherub-like features.”

I was appalled.

There is no man born on this Earth who wants to be a chubby cherub. Matter of fact, if you told a woman that her blind date was “chubby and cherub-like” she just might call in sick.

I became obsessed.

I went to my bathroom mirror and stood there for at least fifteen minutes, peering at my cheeks–my second chin which was thinking about adding on an addition–and eventually became convinced that I indeed was a cherub. Although that supposedly has angelic proportions, it also makes you look too child-like and too plump.

I immediately started a diet, which didn’t last long because I was motivated for all the wrong reasons.

So over the years I have tried to grow a beard, which was as successful as any other cherub, and I’ve sported a mustache–a goatee which I occasionally have to pencil in because it’s just not dark enough.

This whole story would be very pathetic except for the fact that deep in my heart, I really don’t care.

My confidence is not based on my appearance, but rather, the confidence my appearance may proffer to others.

 

 

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Celery

Celery: (n) a cultivated plant of the parsley family

An ounce of consecration yields a pound of cure.

As human beings we spend an awful lot of time complaining about how much effort it takes to get results. Nothing is further from the truth.

Every once in a while, I build up such consecration to lose weight. There are two actions that tell me I’m serious about the endeavor:

  • I start quoting the calories in the food set before me, and
  • I develop an almost mystical interest in celery

Yes, I literally hypnotize myself into believing it makes a great snack, and since it really has no calories, it is able to trick my body into thinking that we are dining without actually plumping.

I think my record is four days.

Yes–four glorious days when I consumed celery, acting as if it were potato chips. Then came Day 5.

It was a very simple fall from grace. It began with a statement: “You know what would be good with this celery?”

At first I showed great restraint. I merely dipped my green stalk into some low-calorie ranch dressing. But that was a little too watery and didn’t cling well. So I switched to regular ranch dressing, trying to be careful about how much I used.

After about two days, I grew tired of the taste of ranch and discovered that cheese whip was delicious on the celery. Now, I was cautious not to put too much of the goo into the provided groove. (After all, if the celery did not want me to have a condiment with it, why did it make that slot?)

By Day 10, I discovered that the most excellent filler was peanut butter.

Peanut butter and celery.

My God, I felt righteous! I had the “no calories” of celery mingled with the protein of peanut butter, which would certainly counteract all the fat included.

Imagine how discouraged I was, after a week, to realize that I had gained weight on celery and peanut butter.

Celery is a trickster. It offers great promise, but has no ability to fulfill unless it brings along its blubbery friends.

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Broth

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Broth: (n) soup consisting of meat or vegetable chunks, and often rice, cooked in stock.

Although it may seem bewildering, it is one of my fondest memories.

I was in the midst of one of my festering needs to lose weight and had fasted for about a day-and-a-half (though at the time I would have insisted it was two).Dictionary B

I was hungry.

You see, as a fat man, I never allow myself to become hungry. The presence of food is the ushering in of appetite.

I’ve never been able to consider the consumption of calories to be nutrition for survival, but rather, a pleasure I grant myself in large quantities, to confirm that I have the power to relish what is available.

Bluntly, I’m never starved. I just eat.

On this particular occasion, though, I actually gained the pangs, the passion and the purpose to receive food.

My body was growing weaker and weaker, and threatened to shut down in protest over my abstinence from meals.

Yet there was a thirty-minute passage of time when I felt more alive than I had ever felt before. I needed something–and was fully aware that I was about to receive it.

I was really famished.

I sensed a yearning rather than a burning.

And when I sat down at the end of that half-an-hour, to steaming broth with floating pieces of carrot and rice, smelling of chicken, I will tell you it was probably the most delicious delicacy I have ever devoured.

It had fragrance, taste and promise.

I’ve often wondered why I can’t return to that same fervency of appreciation.

Because on that day, a bowl of broth tasted to me like heavenly manna.

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