Fit with Fat?

Last Thanksgiving, my hairdresser told me about these amazing "fat bombs" she made. I smiled and nodded like I knew what the heck she was talking about. Fat bombs? Huh? I let her finish, telling me about her hot yoga instructor, how much energy she had . . . BLAH, BLAH, BLAH . . . FAT? bombs? OK.

And then. . . after the gloriously never ending hockey season, I could NOT snap out of a malaise that would not let go. Napping made it worse. Caffeine worked in the morning, but by MID-morning, I was already tired again. It doesn't help that working in an all boys' school means: boxes of Krispie Kreme on any day that ends in Y, baked goods in the faculty lounge - "just because", cookie breaks, bake sales, did I mention boxes of Krispie Kreme?. . . . Endless sugar spikes for someone that doesn't eat breakfast and so gives in with a make up call. And I don't even HAVE a sweet tooth!

Right about this time, I was back with my hairdresser while I overheard her telling her previous client about "ketosis," more about the fat bombs, and her energy levels. . . Not so blah, blah, blah this time; I was listening.

The thing is, it just made sense - the foods I crave, the foods I eat when I'm stressed, the foods I have no problem giving up. . . . I have always been someone that would rather have two helpings of dinner and no dessert. I have always preferred MEAT. It just made sense for me.

Within the first week, my energy level was absurd. I would get home from school and be ready to do chores like it was Saturday morning. I had decided at some point this winter to do a vegetable garden; this diet just fueled its creation.

It's not for everyone. Sunny and Nan were nice enough to entertain my new change in week 2 when I visited the farm. We even made a low carb cheesecake with her famous recipe (that was just the thing in week two in which to indulge). And cousins at the farm had a honey baked ham and all sorts of different veggies for Sunday lunch. PERFECT!

There were moments of reaching for something, craving something, swallowing something (and spitting it out). However, it's worked for my energy. I don't own a scale, but I fit into clothes I haven't in a year. So. . . . . . as I sit here and mock all my previous recipes, I realize I need to start cataloguing these new ones.

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