Too bad there's not a recipe that'll please the doctor

I wish I didn't love to cook. It'd be a lot easier to eat sensibly if I hated cooking. Then we'd happily exist on broiled skinless chicken, unsauced vegetables and fruits that haven't been baked in pastry and topped with ice cream.

I wouldn't accumulate a file full of clipped newspaper and magazine recipes, and occasionally even try some of them. Unfortunately, the ones I try usually aren't from Weight-Watcher's Magazine or Cooking Light.

I wouldn't remember what every family member's favorite food is, or what they usually choose for their birthday dinner, or what comforts them when they're sick. I'd forget that my husband's favorite pies are gooseberry and lemon meringue, and that when he's sick, he wants homemade chicken noodle soup. And that they all love piña colada whipped cream cake. And that the smell of Mexican chocolate bars baking in the oven can pull everybody in like a magnet.

There wouldn't be a file of "old reliables" in the back of my mind: meatloaf, beef stew, chicken and dumplings, pineapple-upside-down cake, spinach salad (low-cal right up until you pour the sour cream/balsamic vinegar dressing on it and add the dried sweetened cranberries and toasted pecans).

I wouldn't feel a comfortable glow when my husband, grown kids or grandkids ask me to cook a favorite from years ago, or request a recipe.

I wouldn't freeze a chicken tortilla casserole to accompany us when we visit our son and his family in Berkeley. Shawn loves it. Fortunately, our daughter-in-law Becky is a superior cook herself, so she doesn't resent it. In fact, her beef stew is so good I had to get the recipe.

I wouldn't have to prepare for a doctor's appointment with a couple of weeks of strict dieting, resenting every mouthful of my cooking that goes into my husband's mouth. Gone would be the exhausting workouts on the gym equipment during those two weeks, and sitting in the sauna with sweat dripping off my nose.

Oh, how happily I look back at rare times in my life when I didn't need to worry about weight ... when I was a skinny little pigtailed kid who had to be tempted to eat breakfast with treats like fried cornmeal mush. Don't knock it until you've tried it. The cold solid mush is sliced, dredged in flour, slowly fried until crispy, then topped with butter and syrup. Only after I'd made it myself did I realize the extra work Mom went to, just to get breakfast down me on a school morning.

In my last two years of high school, I lost my appetite every time I fell in love, and I fell in love often. It kept me quite slender. Fortunately, I was a late bloomer. If I'd started falling in love earlier, I'd have been a wraith by graduation.

There was that wonderful time after our older son was born. I'd had morning sickness morning, noon, night and in the middle of the night for the whole nine months. I'd scope out the bathroom location in every Yakima store where I shopped regularly, and knew how long it took to run there with my hand over my mouth. I weighed less after Matt was born than I had before I got pregnant. It lasted until the next pregnancy came along, several years later.

Then it was downhill all the way. Every year brought a few more pounds. I'd started marriage barely knowing how to boil water, and turned into a very good cook who got satisfaction from having people ask for a recipe at a potluck or bake sale ... from seeing my family enjoy their favorites ... who, unfortunately, enjoyed them herself. My willpower is so pitifully weak that I tell myself it's a good thing I've never gotten hooked on anything stronger than buttered noodles, although, as it turned out, they're equally bad for me.

I never had to smoke marijuana to get the munchies; they just came naturally. And often. A good movie from NetFlix calls for popcorn ... with butter. Balancing the checkbook needs something stronger, maybe a rummage through the freezer to see if there's anything left of the Halloween candy that didn't get handed out. I'm safer with a good book; I get so engrossed there's no need to nibble, and my tea gets lukewarm.

I have another doctor's appointment coming up. Last time, I'd lost a few pounds, and the glow of the staff's approval gave me such a sunny, optimistic feeling that I was sure I'd keep going. Then along came Thanksgiving and Christmas.

So it's back to the boring, skimpy things that call themselves meals, the torture machines, and sweating in the sauna. It's a good place to meditate about what a weak-willed ninny I am.

Then to the doctor's office. I'll take off my shoes, wristwatch and earrings, and step on the scales. There might be relief, or maybe shame. The chicken tortilla casserole I prepare when I get home will be either to celebrate or console myself. I wish I could savor a broiled chicken breast with as much gusto!

* Donna Scofield is a freelance writer whose articles, columns and short fiction stories have appeared in numerous national and regional magazines. The longtime Yakima resident is retired after working as a secretary and office manager in Yakima School District elementary schools. She has raised two sons and two daughters.