I am a happy butterball. I am a roley poley doughy ball of happy goodness. I am sated.

You may or may not have noticed my absence on this blog. It was never my intention to ignore you, my lovelies. It’s just that it’s so difficult to type and/or think while food is crowding out your brain and oozing from your eyeballs. I’ve gone positively wonky.

But I love that your comments continue to roll in, whether on the last post or on posts from many months ago. Some of you are actually reading the archives! It’s like you’re caring for my beloved blog in my absence. Gently tending its fields. Oh, how I love you all!

The last week has been a blur – the best kind of blur! – of good food and good friends. I can’t remember days, exactly, just segments of eating. Pie-cut portions of moments with those I love, ending only when it’s time to cut the next slice.

Chicago was the proverbial torch ceremony of this Eating Olympics. I literally shook in my seat the entire drive down, unable to sit still, my heart (and belly) remembering what it’s like to be with my oldest friends. Eliza. Sara. Carrie. Their names like the ancient spices infused in my favorite dishes from home, Laughter, Love, and Confidences. Twenty-two years of aromatic memories indistinguishable from my own. We shopped in Lincoln Square (hot chili with drippy cheese and crisp oyster crackers), prepared the house for the party (thick fudge and goopy taco dip), and celebrated well after the last guests had gone (festive champagne cocktails and impromptu snow cones?)

Upon my return home, I had one week to “interview” for an article I’m writing on ethnic food. That’s right, dear reader – I have spent the last several days stuffing myself with the best home-cooked native dishes of six different restaurants – and getting paid. I brought a loved one with me to these feasts as often as their schedules would allow. Jenn explained the art of Indian food to me as I sampled lamb chutney, vegetable balls “in a delicious sauce”, sweat paan with fennel and raisins hidden inside. Katie made googly eyes with my cute interpreter as we gorged on Peruvian offerings and sweet Inca Kola. Sarah acted as the yin to my yang as we puzzled out the delicious Afghani offerings, each of us favoring different tastes. On my own, I took in Thai, Mexican, and Russian as well. It was as if the United Nations convened in my belly. (Or, perhaps, tribal warfare – but I’ll spare you the details.)

To make things even more interesting, good friends came to visit Tuesday night. Their stay was far too brief, but the laughs at that Tied House table may just give me my fill until the next time we meet again. I left that place bloated with grateful giddiness and three-cheese zucchini pasta.

In the mean time, I’ve continued my twice weekly sessions with the personal trainers of Orange Shoe Gym. “What did you eat today?” My trainers always ask. I, in turn, always grin. “Salad,” I fib happily. “One half wheat bagel with 1 tsp natural peanut butter. Good stuff.” The trainers nod, satisfied, and make neat check marks on the clipboard.

I hope there is no telltale Creamy Spinach stuck between my teeth, and keep my mouth closed as the smile takes over my face. Head spinning, feet surprisingly light on the treadmill, lungs full of sweet air, I revel in my happy secret. I don’t feel bad about the lies. At least I am moving. At least I am celebrating. At least I am living.