I've been a vegetarian, off and on, my whole life. So, when I met my life-long-non-meat-eater partner, it felt like a perfect natural match. And, having never really liked it to begin with, I rarely miss the fleshy bits. Sure, there are times when the idea of devouring a beautifully prepared rare fillet makes my insides pinch. But only dreamy and fleeting. Especially since, I no longer eat potatoes, either. Ah, the classics.

But I do crave strange things. At times. I'll pass an Arby's and start fantasizing about a fat Chicago-style beef and cheddar. Or a Maxwell Street Polish. Sigh. Gyros. (Sometimes more desperately at 2:30 in the morning than sex.) Chorizo. Especially, chilaquillas with chorizo. Shudder. [And, yes, Ted. I do still love a Reuben.]

Usually, though, the idea of actually eating those things makes me feel a little silly in the tummy-sack.

The other night, over a plate of wonderful Mexican food, my Olav told me that it makes him happy to see me eating real food. He squirms a bit every night when I eat a plate of nothing more than iceberg lettuce and a little dressing after preparing a real dinner for him. Since I worry over my weight, it was a strange-beautiful thing to hear. And I ate the rest of the chilaquillas (sans chorizo).