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Carol D Marsh's avatar

I've been thinking about food waste, and now here's Tamara's Monday newsletter to really gin up my thinking. I was raised to clean my plate. No regard for whether I was already full, no regard for whether I liked the dish--I had to clean my plate. When I was about 14, my mother made a dessert of pound cake and chocolate sauce. I loved chocolate so I poured a hefty slug of sauce on top of the cake. It was beautiful, the rich, dark color soaking into the yellowish cake. I took a big forkful. And gagged. The chocolate in the sauce was from Droste's, very dark and very bitter. I was used to Hershey bars, so this didn't say "chocolate" to me at all. I could not, for the life of me, force it down. The meal over, the rest of my family--three other children and my parents--left the table. I wasn't allowed to. I hadn't cleaned my plate. I don't know how long I sat there staring at my plate and wondering how I'd ever finish. Gathering my resolve, I took a forkful, held my breath, chewed, and swallowed. And promptly vomited. That sauce tasted so bad to me that I threw up after the second mouthful of it. I tried to clean up, but left some vomit behind on the table, for which Mom chastised me the next day. Today, my relationship with food is a hot mess of a battle between not wanting to waste food and learning to listen to my body. But one thing is very clear, and food waste concerns be damned: I will NOT--not now, not ever, NEVER again--eat Droste's chocolate.

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Intact Animal's avatar

The pace determines the waste. In more ways than one. The level of toxins, the kinetic energy, the mental drive. I only wanted to complete the race, unconcerned with the competitive side of things. A finisher medal from the Ronda 101km, a foot race organized by the Spanish Foreign Legion, was accomplishment enough, place be damned. The key was not to waste too much energy in the first 70 kilometers. A delicate balance of pacing and nutrition requiring discipline and concentration. I tried to follow the plan, didn’t, and paid a price. The lactic acid laid waste to every muscle in my body, but I kept going. Willpower propelled me across the final 31km of the course as I shuffled over the finish line into the waiting arms of my love. I made it! Fifteen hours and forty-five minutes in motion capped off by the moonlit Ronda gorge, a favorite view of Rainer Rilke, Ernest Hemingway, and Orson Welles.

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