falling off the wagon

Hello, my name is Lauren Van Kempen.

And I’m a recovering Nutella addict.

I have fallen off the wagon.

I’ve been clean since my study abroad when I consumed one jar (not the little one, we’re talking the big mamma…the queen and king size 1 kg jar of Nutella) of this addictive confection per week. Like the Nutella-crack-whore that I was I would eat it by the spoonful, smeared gently on a banana, spooned onto a piece of fresh bread, I would suck on my fingers smothered with the creamy spread, and unashamedly lick the remnants left the inside of the jar yet…I couldn’t get enough.

The intervention came 18 pounds later with the realization that I no longer had a waist, but just a thick section holding up my breasts.

Quel horreur!

Then…May 9^th 2011 a Monday like any other, I went about the grocery store getting our normal staples-plain yogurt, mushrooms, cheese, wine…and there it was, the addiction that I thought I had so long defeated staring at me in all its hazelnutty-chocolatey-creamy-wonder…the Nutella display.

In my stupidity (that whole addiction seemed like such a long time ago) I bought the smallest jar thinking that I would I have self-control, however the tell-tale addiction signs were already there. The usually healthy conveyor belt was piled with cookies, shortbreads, crackers and an assortment of other readily-smear-me-with-Nutella goodies…after all-what doesn’t go with Nutella?

That was it. I jumped head-first off the wagon and straight into the cellulite inducing slide back into addiction. It was all back- Nutella sandwiches, Nutella being licked off of a rubber spatula, Nutella Nutella Nutella.

My little jar lasted me TWO days. That was it. I unleashed the dormant Nutella-beast and in a binge of-well, let’s be honest- two 20 minute sessions it was done. Nothing can undo those sorts of calories.

But it’s gone now. All gone.

The only things that remains is the slight Nutella hangover, the lust after anything resembling a hazelnut, the inadvertent drooling at the mention of that naughty nut-paste, and of course the difficulty of buttoning up my jeans.

happy birthday to me

Joyeux anniversaire, joyeux anniversaire, joyeux annniiiiiveeeersaiiiiiirrrreeee LO-RENN….Joyeux anniversaire!

I mean we didn’t celebrate or anything official. But according to the Republic of France, my passport and that trusty calendar….I am officially 1 year old.

A little-12-month-baby-parisienne…that would be…

Don’t get me wrong, I support the red-white-and-blue , big fan of those stars and stripes etc.

But…I’m also a big fan of the red-liquid-in-a-wine-glass with a slightly woody undertone. Ahem.

Bring on the stinky cheese (un reblochon ou un Roquefort s’il vous plait) those tricky conjugations, the lip-puffing, eye-rolling, those long nasal “euhhhhh” or "bof bof" sounds that punctuate conversations, the Gallic-shoulder-shrugs, the rare and moo-ing meat, the painful shoes, the forgotten English, the flights and flights of stairs with no elevators, the 2 hour lunches, the 2 hour waits in the post office, open-air drinking, cigarette smoke being blown in your face, pastries, pastries, pastries, pastries, foie gras….

The list goes on.

Oh mon dieu! I am soooo French!

Euuuhhhhhh...bof bof...lip-puff...eye-roll.....gallic-shoulder-shrug....the timer has gone off…my chocolate chip cookies are almost done, and the boyfriend is about to come home with our piping hot Pizza Hut cheesy crust pizzas so we can drink a beer and watch “The Office”.