Mostly in this thing M. and I call a relationship, I live a deprived and desperate condition.  One in which my fitness-loving beau speaks out against one of my favorite things in the whole whide world.  Tasty, rib-sticking, satifying, energy-providing carbohydrates.  A meal for him is pork ribs and maybe a salad with a side of pork something else.  Or maybe a 5 inch steak and a piece of lettuce.

He's gotten a bit mellower on the issue, since he stopped working with a, might I add chubby, army of Atkins and South Beach dieters.

But, this week, what with the SF Marathon coming up this weekend, when he plans to run the half-marathon >13-mile version, the carbo thang is first and foremost.  Cake, bread, pasta, noodles, rice, did I mention bread? are all in the foreground.

Sadly, it's so fucking blisteringly hot all over the US map, I'm not feeling very scone-loving.  I finally have my way in the quest for food joy, and all I fucking want is a glass of ice water.