I love me some food. I know triathletes and endurance athletes often boast about how much they eat, but I’ve read the SlowTwitch “shame eating” threads and they’re pretty weaksauce. Admitting you ate two huge bowls of cereal or a Krispy Kreme donut pales in comparison to the splendid displays of fat-assery Jason and I have embarked on time and time again. One time we went to Claim Jumper and each ordered fried mozzarella sticks as an appetizer before polishing off fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, extra biscuits with honey butter, and dessert. (Okay, I lied…we’ve done that more than once.) So you’ve got the faux-pig triathletes who are all “Tee hee, I ate so much yesterday” and then you found out it was something bullshit like an extra helping of quinoa or farro or some other dumb grain that sounds made up. And on the opposite end of the spectrum you’ve got lean, stringy-looking endurance athletes who you know are fast just by glancing your fat eyeballs upon their striated, beef jerky-esque frame, and those folks are so uninterested in food that sometimes they “forget to eat” and only do it because their bodies need sustenance. Forget to eat?! Who does that??? When I’m eating, I think about other food I want to eat, and when I’m not eating, I think about all the food I can’t wait to eat. I love food so much. Soooooo much. I consider myself an equal-opportunity food lover, meaning I’m just as willing to drop a few hundred bucks at a Michelin star restaurant as I am to gorge myself at the sketchy cash-only taco truck parked behind a Home Depot. Despite being a mega-huge carnivore, I’ll also be a good sport and hit up vegetarian or vegan places with my friends. (Though the last time I did that, I promptly came home, picked Jason up, and drove to get meat-filled deep dish pizza. Deep dish pizza is muy tasty.) I’m willing to try pretty much anything, whether it’s foo-foo holistic or offal-tastic. However, some of the stuff my teammates insist on passing off as real food has me unconvinced. Some examples: 1. Kale Chips Everyone seems to be on this kale chip kick lately. “Mmm, they’re sooooooo good! They really satisfy my craving for real potato chips!” I’ve had kale chips before and they’re alright, but I have to point out a couple things: They are absolutely not a substitute for actual potato chips. Real potato chips are delicious. Kale chips are dried pieces of kale. These two are not remotely the same thing. Only eat these if you’re sitting at home by yourself, because dark green flecks get shoved in every possible tooth crevice you can imagine, thus killing any socialization efforts at a party or your chances of getting laid if you’re on a date. Nothing says “Please don’t interact with me” like a wad of crusty kale hanging outcho toof. 2. Cottage Cheese Sorry, I don’t eat ceiling spackle. I don’t care how much you trowel into half a cantaloupe. It’s the one cheese I won’t touch because it’s not actually cheese, it’s the stuff that gets sucked out of Kim Kardashian’s saddlebags. 3. Anything That’s a Poor Substitution for Something Else Looking at some Runner’s World recipes, I’m seeing “Chicken Not Pie” instead of chicken pot pie and “Grilled Turkey Salisbury Steaks,” which I’m guessing is a poor substitution for actual Salisbury steak. Turkey doesn’t taste like beef, it tastes like turkey. I get that it’s lower in calories than beef, but don’t try to dupe me by saying it’ll quell my craving for cow. If...

This is an open letter to every judgmental waiter who gives me and Jason that look when we tell him or her what we want to order. (Yes, it’s happened on enough occasions that I feel an open letter is necessary. And yes, I realize I’m trying to lose weight for the 2012 season. Back up off me, beeyotch. I likes me some food.) Dear Judgmental Waiter Who Thinks I’m Ordering Too Much Food, First of all, I appreciate your concern for my well-being as well as your doubt that I can successfully cram such a large quantity of food down my gullet. I can see how you would underestimate my ability to pack in the calories, seeing as how I’m of average height and somewhat thin/athletic build and not some sort of morbidly obese hobgoblin who rolled in on a Rascal scooter and prodded you with a fork I brought from home while wearing an old food-stained bib I got from an Old Country Buffet six years ago. However, I need to educate you on a few things so that you will stop giving me that “Are you seriously ordering this much food” look: 1. My mom is Korean; therefore, I know how to eat. Koreans love to eat. The only thing they love more than food itself is watching their kids pig out; thus, my mother’s greatest joy is simultaneously stuffing bulgogi and rice in my mouth while scowling that I’ve gained too much weight (except for recently, where now she alternates asking me what I’m making for dinner and telling me not to lose too much weight or I’ll become “ann-o-reck-she-uh”). Therefore, despite my size and stature, I have an uncanny ability to eat a ridiculous amount of food. It’s how I grew up–Momma didn’t raise no dainty eater. Although my boyfriend is 6’4″ and 200 lbs, when he and I order dishes to share at a restaurant, we actually do split the food 50/50, which is highly disproportionate considering our weight and caloric intake differentials. To put it quite bluntly, I am a pig. A shameless, ravenous pig. If I don’t restrain myself, I could easily polish off enough food to put a Biggest Loser contestant to shame. 2. I worked out for four hours today. Not only am I a glutton, I’m also a (somewhat mediocre) endurance athlete; thus, chances are I’ve done 2-8 hours of grueling workouts earlier in the day and am freakin’ starving. I’ve burned thousands of calories and now my body wants some of them back. So thank you for the eye roll and the silent judgment that I’m probably bulimic. I’m not puking, I just want something other than Powerbar Perform and gels in my stomach, for crying out loud. 3. In case you forgot, I’m paying you for all this food. You’re not bringing this shit to me for free, for crying out loud. I understand the basic concept of a restaurant–I pay for the food you make and bring to me, whether or not I actually consume it (I will though, because my inner fat kid is crying for something that’s been cooked in butter). It’s not like I’m going to take one dainty little nibble, push the rest away, and hold my belly, exclaiming, “Ohhhhhh, I’m so full. I’m not paying for the rest of this!” If I don’t eat it all (which is rare), I’ll take the leftovers home. Either way, it shouldn’t matter to you since you’re getting money from me whether I eat it all, throw it on the ground, or build Close Encounters-esque towers with it. 4. I realize how much food...

Before I begin, I swear that this whole weight loss thing is working. So far I’ve lost 20 lbs from my fattest sad panda state, and I’m roughly six pounds away from my tentative weight goal (which may change depending on how much belly pooch I’ve got when I hit that magic number). That being said, let’s talk pie. So when I trained for my first Ironman, I ended up eating a lot of frozen custard from Old School. It’s freakin’ delicious, and you can’t beat the fact that they have a new flavor every day. I’m not really a “sweets” person; normally I’m more of a savory/salty fan when it comes to food cravings. However, for some reason I just ended up gorging on frozen custard in conjunction with the ridiculous amount of training hours I was racking up each week. I had the calories to spare, so what the hell, why not waste them on frozen snacky snacks. This year I thought about changing things up a bit. While I’m still intent on losing weight, I’ve decided that Ironman #2 will be fueled with pie. My fellow Ironman Canada alum Bill is married to a woman named Alley, and not only does Alley run like the wind (I don’t know if she’s done any tris, but she’s done a bunch of run races), she bakes pies. Normally I’m not a huge pie freak (again with typically being “meh” with regards to desserts), but I commissioned Alley to make a coconut cream pie for Jason’s birthday last month and once I tasted that coconutty goodness, I got a little hooked. Like any junkie, soon after polishing off this bad boy I was craving another fix, so after trying to hold out for a couple weeks, I messaged my dealer on Facebook: Me: “Okay, so I seriously am thinking about buying a pie from you every month. Would that be ridiculous? I’m open to seasonal flavor deliciousness…something seasonal and awesome sounds like it could be a winner for October. Yes, I am addicted to your pies after only having tried one. Don’t judge me.” Alley: “Hahahaha! I KNEW you’d get hooked! Atta girl!” And thus my “One Pie Every Month” agreement had been born. On Saturday I picked up October’s flavor, apple. When Jason heard we were getting an apple pie, he had this reaction: But then he saw this hefty motherfucker: When he tried it, he reacted accordingly: I picked up the pie on Saturday and right now there’s only one slice left. We’ve been pairing our portions with snickerdoodle ice cream from Bluebird for super extreme deliciousness a la mode. (I must point out that despite Jason being fully on board with the Pie of the Month agreement, he’s lost 30 lbs thus far and has been dropping weight like a mofo. So there, I’ve now justified our fat-assness with the fact that we’re mostly being responsible and health-conscious, minus pie.) November’s pie flavor will obviously be pumpkin. That combined with the fact that Thanksgiving is easily my favorite holiday purely because of the large quantity of food that can be drenched in gravy means my triumphant return to racing (the Seattle half marathon) could either go well because I’ve been injury-free and running well lately, or it could go horribly awry as I stumble 13.1 miles in a bloated pie and starchy haze. Place your bets...

If you’re a serious athlete, you eat to train. I am not a serious athlete, so I reverse that mantra. Jas and I love food more than our non-existent children (those ungrateful little shitheads), so we train to eat. A big chunk of why I dutifully put up with working out upwards of 15 hours a week is so I can enjoy cramming poutine, frozen custard, handmade tagliatelle, and other unhealthy deliciousness into my gaping mouth until my belly is as bloated as Val Kilmer’s face.

Though the term is kind of douchy, I’d call myself an equal-opportunity “foodie.” Okay, more of a food lover, really. The word “foodie” has a pretentious air about it, while I’m content to eat just about anywhere so long as my meal is good. I love sketchy burrito joints just as much as $400 meals at Fleur de Lys, and street food is just as delicious as [insert fancy dish with truffles]. Every year I even make a pilgrimage to Taco Bell, stuff my face full of grade-E meat and experience instant regret and self loathing. It’s been a tradition of mine for years.