I’m in that phase where food is problematic. The smell, the texture, the idea of foods that don’t appeal to me makes me feel nauseated. I’m normally a very healthy, conscientious eater. But now I am an opportunist. If something sounds/smells good, I’m there. If Allen’s french fries smell good, I will fight him for them.
Laurel still calls her favorite sandwiches "hangaburgers," which is impossibly cute!
So, following imposed pregnancy guidelines regarding food is completely pointless. If I were to follow the Bradley dietary recommendations for pregnant women, I will feel nauseated this entire pregnancy. My body doesn’t want soft textures or strong smells. It doesn’t want eggs or chicken. It wants COLD rare steak, but refuses to allow me to COOK it, or be in the same room while someone else cooks it. My body will allow me to eat cottage cheese, but only a smear, on top of a crunchy cracker.
But for all the things I am having trouble eating, there are some food cravings that I am happy to satisfy. My body seems to want Chipotle‘s vegetarian bol, with the black beans and guacamole and cheese, and mild salsa. OMG it’s utopia in my mouth. Or cold salmon, but apparently NOT smoked *hurk*. Cold, cooked salmon. Salmon that has never lived beside dairy, such as cream cheese.
Ice cream continues to be a hit. Of course. As well as bread-n-butter pickles. So, I am a stereotype, although I certainly don’t want to put them together. Fresh fruit and slightly cooked green beans or asparagus top my list of things to nosh on. But I don’t seem to want sauces or cheese. Potatoes are amazing. I want them french fried, chip-ified, mashed, baked, and in my belly.
Hamburgers smell good, but I’m not sure I should go there. My past troubles with fatty red meat seem to be amplified now. So, although Laurel’s hamburger smells good, I don’t think I’ll ask for a bite.
I look forward to getting over this super-sensitive phase, when I won’t have to breathe through my mouth when friends are surrounding me with their plates full of fettucine carbonarra. Or when Allen cooks sausage in the kitchen while I hide under the covers in the bedroom and groan pitifully beside the throw up bowl.