It seems, my friends, that we’ve now entered the stage of pregnancy in which cravings appear. There was an episode in my first trimester involving Dairy Queen soft serve, and I have, over the last four months or so, developed an exaggerated fondness for yogurt, string cheese and cranberry juice, but beyond that the cravings have been pretty tame and more or less within my usual diet.
If you’re imagining me ordering Mitch to the grocery store at midnight on a mission for the proverbial pickles and ice cream, though, that’s not quite right. When I crave something, it’s not so much a specific item as it is a second or third helping of whatever it is I’m presently eating and enjoying: if one glass of grapefruit juice is good, then three glasses is better. Better still is the consumption of an entire carton of grapefruit juice over the course of two days. (As it happens, I’m drinking my fourth glass of grapefruit juice right now.)
A startling exception to this would be my craving for meat, conveniently making an appearance while we were at the steak house after Mitch’s grandma’s wedding.
I’ve never been one for steak, or for pork chops, chicken breasts, meat patties, etc. Meat in large, uninterrupted quantities has never appealed to me much, but somehow I ended up ordering a ten-ounce slab of prime rib (I had to ask Mitch’s grandma for help because I really didn’t know how one went about ordering a steak) with a baked potato on the side, and I ate the entire thing.
It was delicious. Mitch, who has never seen me eat something so large or recently alive in one sitting, was suitably impressed.