I was going to write something a tad more profound last night, but that story generally has the same ending. (It was probably something about my fight on maternity as an imposition with my Dad, who is an exemplar proof that you can have an academic, intellectual, cultured individual with the mind-set of a XIV century peasant.) So, as with other aspects of life, when in doubt as to your writing topic, food it is!
Honestly, I don't have weight problems. I know that my BMI is decent, even if my bulimia would argue on the contrary. However, said BMI isn't a divine gift from the Heavens. Even though my relationship with exercise is one based on love alone, I still eat less than I wish I could. Because, as most people, I adore food.
Here's where traveling makes me happy.
With all due respect to my daily meals, I don't care anything about them in comparison to the frijoles negros con arroz that I tried in Brazil, the Turkish candy from, yes, Istambul, or the tihina in Israel.
Yay for exotic food.
My Mom can complain about her eldest's eating habits to her heart's content, but I'm going for the XL portions of bananas fritas con quinoa as many times as necessary to make me sick.