I like to cook; it is one of my greatest joys. I am good at it and I cook quite often while at home. When I come home from school I sift through my mother's recipe books, of which there are dozens (many of which she has written over and changed, making her the Half Blood Prince of cooking), and I pick out one that I can make easily. Normally this involves me changing a few (most) of the ingredients around to suit what I have on hand. But somehow they all end up delicious like the chicken and bacon contraption I made tonight.
|Oh yeah, you like that? Oh, you want a close up? I bet you do...|
|My sense of taste just threw itself off a tall building.|
Then I come home where I can cook whenever I want and I have no need to walk anywhere. I realized today that I was once again gaining weight and in a desperate attempt to shed a pound or so I did five push-ups (Impressive!), ten crunches (Practically Hulk!), and two miles on the treadmill, which lead to me having treadmill-feet for about ten minutes. Not that it helped with the chicken and bacon.
I think it was the five push-ups that put me over the edge.