Right before January I start preparing. I make a vow to myself that I will learn to find some tragic kind of delight in plain brown rice and braised tofu. I promise the produce man that he’ll be getting sick of my face pretty soon, what with me pestering him day in and day out for the vitamin-rich fruits and vegetables that will be the basis of my new, healthy lifestyle. I alphabetize the dozens of bottles of salad dressings in the fridge, each a reminder of a long-ago valiant-but-failed attempt at making tossed greens a habit, kept in hope that maybe some fat-free French or a nice raspberry vinaigrette would finally come through as my savior, my way into the clear light of a sensible diet, far away from the lardaceous evil doings of the depraved cheeseburger devil.
