I don't know how it happens but sometimes a little extra sneaks up on me. OK, that's a lie. I know how it happens. Pretzel bread, raspberry pie, creamy curried pasta and my enjoyment of them have left me with a bit more around my waist. Not a big deal in the whole scheme of my life these days, but an irritation when my pants are tight and the zipper won't stay up because my stomach is fighting for a little more room. So I increase my running and consumption of things like this, a raw beet salad.
My husband Mike has cancer. Nasty MF @#$%&! esophageal cancer. Are you clear on what the initials MF stand for? Not My Favorite. Not Mon Frere. The other one. The one that feels so good to say. So appropriate. It deserves it for doing it's nasty work inside his body before announcing itself via a little fatigue, pain and weight loss. Clever bastard.