Day Four-ever

Time has slowed to a crawl, like trying to watch the dead run a race with no zombie in them. That's how this Thursday has felt, since I know tomorrow evening I go home to the land of carbs, of nightshades, of funghi, of the pickled and fermented, of the distilled and brewed. They will welcome me with open toxins, and they better stay open late. Sure, by the end the whole detox will only have been slightly over 100 hours, but this day alone felt like that.

The odd part is it's not so much I'm wracked with cravings. It's that I'm bored. So much of my life is about thinking about the next meal, shopping for it, preparing it, savoring it, and now it's like, "How do we dress up a green salad this time?" (Answer: go for an herb one complete with flowers.)

Here's tonight's dinner, about which my wife said, "Detox isn't as good as it looks." Alongside that salad is fresh local black cod, pan sauteed in a bit of canola oil that first fired up a mess of garlic, ginger, and spring onion (that's the crispy goodness atop). There was also roasted asparagus, Brussels sprouts, leeks. At this point I'm so sick of green I might turn away cash if it were offered (but I'm open to you trying to see if that's true). Everything tasted fine, yes, but I long for what I cannot have. The grass is always greener on the non-green side, I guess.