If midnight is the witching hour, 2am must be the bitching hour, particularly if one has undertaken an ecologically-themed 48-hour hunger strike at 4pm of the previous day.
One was practical. One washed all the pots and pans and dishes so that one could no longer smell the delicious, mouth-watering bacon and french toast which one had had for brunch that day. One cut up, bagged and froze the leftovers so that they would be ready for one when one wished to break one’s fast. Or in case one gave in and had to make a green smoothie (one has gotten special pardon from one’s raw vegan chef consultant in advance, as one is practical about these things).
One had a cup of green tea.
One slipped and absent-mindedly had a piece of green apple while one was cutting it up to freeze, but one is not perfect OKAY???
And now one is up typing and doing tomorrow’s work because: a) one is too hungry to go to bed and b) one had that cup of green tea, and duh, caffeine.
One also had a strange urge to flip through all the cookbooks in the house, which one was able to resist only when one found one’s self staring at a recipe for silken tofu salad dressing with one’s mouth watering even though there was no picture, although that may in fact have been a mercy, for have you ever laid eyes on silken tofu on a salad? It looks like the canopy of the rainforest after a huge flock of seagulls have opened the guano bomb bays on it.
All of which is to say that one not only would kill for one of these (truly one of Canada’s greatest culinary achievements, even if you count ketchup chips) but one is slowly coming to identify with them.