I subscribed to a magazine called “Body & Soul,” newly renamed by Martha Stewart, “Whole Living,” whose primary audience is more or less middle-aged women. But what the hell, it’s Martha, and who doesn’t want Martha’s blueprint to perfection?
So in the latest issue, there’s an article on Modern Ayurveda: “the ancient Indian practice of balancing internal health.” Ayurveda believes that everyone is made up of a mix of three energies, or doshas. Theses three doshas are, vata (air + water), pitta (fire + water), and kapha (water + earth). You can take a quiz here to see what your dominant dosha is, aka, what determines your personality and appetite.
I am decidedly (of my own expert opinion) 30 percent vata, 20 percent pitta, and 50 percent kapha, a mix of movement, transformation, and stability.
So this morning, enlightened by my awareness of my appetite’s personality, Meg and I journeyed to the storied Pancake Pantry. They need to put one of these in the BNA airport, but you would only be allowed to eat it before departing from Nashville because you have to train for the Pancake Pantry. While everyone else was training for the Music City Marathon, I, in this past year, have been training for my own Everest: to clean my plate at Pancake Pantry. My first visit, I took half home in a doggy bag. In other visits, I maybe got two-thirds of the way through. I tried only drinking water with the pancakes. Not drinking anything. Drinking coffee. My progress was slow. But this morning, I did it. An entire order of orange and walnut pancakes AND TWO CUPS OF COFFEE, demolished.
In case you were wondering, that cup of goodness is an orange marmalade type of concoction with chopped walnuts. And if I would have been forced to finish it without pancake accompaniment, I would have vomited right there. Meg applauded my success in the middle of the pantry, but my personal success was nothing compared to the Hawaiian pancakes, Cinnamon-sugar pancakes, blueberry pancakes, and buttermilk pancakes being shared, swapped and swallowed whole a few tables over.
My dosha tells me I don’t have a future in competitive eating, but I do in fiction becauussseeee …
Today is brought to you by “Playing for Pizza,” A novel by John Grisham about a 20-something third-string quarterback in the NFL, who’s got skills, but is terrified of contact. He blows what would be a Super Bowl-berth win for the Cleveland Browns (I told you it was fiction) and suffers a concussion. When he comes to, he finds out his only option left is the Parma Panthers – Parma, Italy. Suntanning in Centennial Park, I got a base-tan (i.e. red) and seven chapters in. The Italian cliches are plentiful and painfully trite, and hopefully only to help move the story along, but it’s an enjoyable read.
The day is young, 80-something degrees and still sunny. SEE YA.