But by month three, I was starting to dream about macaroni and cheese. The sight of my husband eating pizza could make me whimper. And I was plagued by food anxiety: Restaurants were minefields, the dishes larded with forbidden ingredients that often weren't even listed. Packaged foods were generally a no-no: A quick perusal of labels almost always revealed soybean oil. And for someone with a serious sweet tooth, dessert was the biggest bummer of all: With a ban on nuts, cream, and butter, my options seemed impossibly limited.
I did have some successes. I found a recipe for an Italian loaf cake made with olive oil, to which I added a handful of chopped rosemary from my garden. The cake was fragrant and earthy, and it satisfied my dessert cravings. And when friends came for dinner, I baked crisp olive oil crackers sprinkled with paprika and coarse sea salt, and served them with eggplant "caviar." But with a baby taking up all of my time, I didn't have much time to cook or bake, let alone think outside the box about ingredients. My diet shrank to a fraction of its former variety and relied heavily on snacks: I smeared hummus on everything from pita chips to baby carrots. I ate tubs of dried apricots and raisins from the farmers' market. Breakfast was oatmeal or dry toast, day after day after day. Every time I unearthed a new permissible treat at the supermarket-dark chocolate-covered pretzels, or coconut milk ice cream—I would be sick of it within a few weeks.
Worst of all, my self-control was beginning to erode. A bigger person, I began to suspect, would be having some sort of epiphany—discovering that this more austere diet was superior in some way to yoga for yoga y c_j7 toon
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