I’m a Wynn, an Oklahoman, and a Baptist, all three of which seem to predispose me to being, shall we say, stocky. Big boned? Hefty? Or let’s just be honest. I’m fat. I’ve been fat most of my life. In a college nutrition class I learned the scientific term is “morbidly obese,” which, as I recently told our church gathering, means one is so fat he will die from it. Interestingly, this nutrition class also toed the USDA line of teaching the low-fat diet combined with 6-11 servings of carbohydrates a day, which I have come to believe has only made Americans fatter and fatter. But that’s another blog post.

Some of my life I have wanted to deal with my weight. I’ve had periods, like in that college nutrition class, where I have been religious about following a plan, in that case the USDA food guide pyramid, only to work and starve and obsess and lose a few pounds. I’ve also had times when I’ve found something that really works, the Atkins diet for example (on which I lost around 40 pounds when I also was walking nearly two miles a day), only to have it and more come back on when I didn’t maintain it properly.

Other times in my life, I simply didn’t care how big I was. It bothered me none that I’m bigger than most. I’m 6’4″ tall and I can carry a lot—and I do mean a LOT—of weight fairly well. I’m big, as everyone can tell by looking, but most don’t know how heavy I am. When I’ve had serious friends attempt to guess my weight, they routinely under-estimate by 100 pounds. So, as long as I could find clothes, which has become increasingly more difficult and expensive, I was simply unconcerned.

And other times, I have actually enjoyed being a large guy. Fortunately, I’ve not really suffered from a poor self image since grade school, so I’ve never had bouts of depression or shame over my weight–and no one should. But it goes a step too far, I think, when one is actually proud to be felt entering a room because of his mass.

And so, I got to a point where, especially for practical reasons (and some vain), I decided this is the year I lose at least 100 pounds. I knew it wouldn’t be easy. And I knew I wouldn’t particularly like it. I mean, seriously folks, I have no illusions as to why I’m fat. Sure I’m big boned (my mother had me tested). Sure, I do desk work. Sure, I may have a thyroid problem (my mother never had me tested). But the fact of the matter is that I LOVE to eat.

I love food. I like it fried. I like it un-fried. I like cheesy things and gooey things and crunchy things. I like everything. And that’s the problem.

I’m thankful for a mother who didn’t feed me just burgers and fries growing up. She exposed my sister and me to a wide variety of differing cuisines growing up, and that wasn’t always easy in 1980s rural Oklahoma. It was a big deal when we got to go eat somewhere new, and there were new, exciting things like scallops and strange vegetables like bok choy and salads with homemade vinaigrettes with pecans in them. She taught me to be a culinary adventurer, and I am thankful for that.

But in my adventures, I became greedy, and I think that may be called gluttony or something. As I grew up and began to make my own money, I became more adventurous. I love meals with appetizers and large portions and desserts and coffee. And while, like most things, those meals are fine in moderation, they became more the rule than the exception. Nothing pleases me more than long, lingering meals with friends where we start at 6 p.m. and don’t wrap up until 10. There’s something about the combination of food and friendship and conversation that just scratches an itch deep inside me.

On the opposite extreme, I also became gastronomically lazy (I’ve always been fairly inactive physically, which is another challenge). As life and work got busier, and as stress from various situations piled up, I turned to quick, usually carb-laden comfort foods.

I love Coca-Cola with a passion. Ben Franklin considered beer a gift from God and evidence that he loves us. I am that way about Coke. As much as I hate to further the notion that heaven will be some giant all-you-can eat buffet, I do believe there might be a free Coke fountain somewhere in the Promised Land.

I also love horrible, fried convenience store delicacies like crispitos, and pizza pockets, and corn dogs, and (if you can get to the c-store in Chelsea, those little mini tacos!).

Some may also recall that at the last Welch Public School Enrichment Foundation banquet that I emceed, in presenting the Outstanding Alumni Award to Carol Calcagno, Coach Ken Sooter said that Carol could just never get enough sports. I responded that the only thing I’d never gotten enough of was chicken fried steak. And I meant that. I took it upon myself to eat every one I could find. That does not a fit boy make.

And so, as with most of life, the challenge is to find a happy medium, somewhere between the two extremes, in which to live and thrive.

To find this happy medium, one has to deal with reality. For me, there are a few realities that I must accept and work around.

1. I do not like exercise. I don’t mind activity, but I hate the monotony of the treadmill. That is not to say that, as I lose weight, I don’t desire to get in the gym and do some work, but exercise cannot be the primary means through which I lose weight. Those who are active can eat more, but I can’t. In short, I can’t continue to eat like a farm hand unless I get a job as a farm hand–and that would be disastrous for some farm.

2. I cannot be hungry. If I am hungry, I will be doomed. Sometimes it’s hard to discern between hunger and desire, but it is possible.

3. I don’t want to do something unhealthier than being fat. Other than cursed sinuses, I am a fairly healthy person. To the surprise of many, I am not a diabetic and I do not have off-the-charts blood pressure, though I do have a brain, so I know things could head that way if I don’t reduce my weight. Then again, I could also be killed by an errant basketball as I do live audio of a ballgame, too. When it’s our time, it’s our time, but there is something to be said about the quality of our life until it’s our time. And there’s that whole “our body is the temple of the Holy Spirit” thing, too.

4. Surgery is not an option for me. It is a great option for some people. I’ve had family members who have done it, and I know others who have had great success with it. I don’t begrudge anyone taking control of their life any way they choose, and I am glad they’re having great success. But, for me, it’s something that I need to do unaided by surgery. I need the mental victory of learning my body and overcoming this challenge without the knife. (Not to mention, I’ve had MRSA a couple times and the thought of an elective surgery in a MRSA-riddled world scares me to death).And, as far as I understood it when others did it, surgery should be a last resort when a person has failed every other way to manage their weight. I haven’t done that yet.

5. I need to see results rapidly. The fact of the matter is this: I am so large and I have so much ground to cover that I will not be motivated by a loss of a pound a week. I know that may be the “best” way to do it. But I have learned in life that one of the biggest mistakes can be to make the perfect the enemy of the good. I won’t do it the perfect way, so I better do it the good way rather than not at all.

So, taking all those things into consideration, I eventually decided that I would use HCG as a means of helping me reach my goal. Thanks to the gentle tenacity, not to mention unending support and exhaustive knowledge, of friend and client Colleen Coble, I discovered the HCG protocol developed by Italian doctor A.T.W. Simeons, M. D. Colleen has had great success with it and has become a real servant by helping others in their struggle with weight with her posts and replies on the online forums.

I recently did an HCG course and saw loss, but didn’t do it properly and regained the weight. But, when I got serious about losing 100 pounds in my 35th year, I knew HCG would be the means to that end. Why? Because it fits all of my five criteria above.

HCG forbids all exercise other than moderate walking while on a course. I can get behind that. On HCG I am never hungry except at meal times (and sometimes not even then), and I am quickly satisfied, even with the very restricted meals during the HCG course. I eat healthier on the HCG protocol than I have eaten most of my life, and I have yet to find even one unhealthy aspect or side effect. HCG is not invasive surgery, though it has the effect of resetting the metabolism in your hypothalamus, giving you physical benefits often afforded by surgery without the knife (and risk of antibiotic-resistant infection). And HCG weight loss is rapid. One can expect to lose 40 pounds in a 40-day regimen, and that kind of progress is motivating.

So, I started my latest course of HCG right after MLK day, and I have lost right at 45 pounds. It’s now time for me to transition from the very low calorie portion of the plan and add back more protein and fat, while still limiting starches and sugars for a few weeks before gradually adding them back in and seeing how much my body can handle without putting weight back on. We’ll see what the future holds.

As for now, I’m still morbidly obese, just not as much as I was. I feel better, have more energy, and like how my clothes are fitting me. I’m actually looking forward to more physical activity and have promised a preacher buddy who makes me sick with his terribly long jogs auto-posted to Facebook by his Garmin device (I’m looking at you, Dan Lewis) that I will come run with him when I drop 100. Then we’ll have a Butterfinger. Or some celery. Maybe a pizza pocket.

So, if my struggle is your struggle, take heart. I’m coming to believe it’s a struggle that’s worth it.

Tonight’s meal didn’t fail to impress, and I can heartily recommend the Italian bruschetta (the distinction is necessary, as they also serve the Greek variety) and the chicken parmesan. Jeane had the ham, peas, and bowtie pasta, which I have previously enjoyed. 

Adding to the ambiance tonight was a young keyboardist—Michael Womack—who played tasteful and appropriate music. It all added up to a great experience. We highly recommend them. And, since they also do double duty as a donut shop, you buy tomorrow’s breakfast tonight. 

We even did a live report from the scene. You can hear the piano in the background.

Ms. Donnelly,

I am a Claremore citizen, and I am growing increasingly concerned with the odor and taste of our municipal water supply. It’s to the point that it can be tasted in the iced tea and even through soda fountains in restaurants. I have spoken with restaurant owners who confirm this and who are facing the expensive reality of installing filtration systems to have to deal with it.

I understand that our water supply is perfectly safe, according to the numbers, but it’s not palatable. Can you provide some information as to what’s wrong with the water and what, if anything, the city is doing to overcome these issues?

I guessed right, for this morning she replied with this:

Thank you for contacting me regarding your concern for our drinking water quality; every water source has its own unique characteristics which may produce taste and odor problems. The primary issue with Lake Claremore is the nutrient load in the Dog Creek Watershed which feeds Lake Claremore creates an excess of algae and vegetation. These contain chemical compounds that while aesthetically unpleasing are considered secondary contaminants and are not currently regulated.

The City of Claremore treats for the removal of these compounds with activated carbon, however periodically the level of these compounds reaches such high levels treatment becomes less effective.

The City of Claremore also continually monitors the bacteriological safety of your drinking water and if the water would become unsafe to drink at any time you would be notified immediately.

Again thank you for your concern and if I may be of further assistance to you please do not hesitate to contact me.

Looks like I’ve been told that it’s safe to drink, they know it smells and tastes bad, and they don’t intend to do anything about it.

Check out the Slingshot Man, who, at 65, could hit quarters in the air and knock Japanese Beetles off leaves without damaging the leaf.

And then there’s Bessie, an 80-year-old sweetheard who acts as jailer/cook/dispatcher for a county jail. She cooked three squares a day for 16 years straight (as of the recording) because she said Matthew 25 compelled her to and she could not have slept if those boys in jail were hungry.

Click here to see more of the “Carolina Camera.” Very interesting indeed.

I am also a fan of the small-town cafe or diner. When I am traveling around, if the town’s main street has a restaurant, you can usually bet that’s where I’ll be eating. I was doing the diners, drive-ins, and dives tour long before Guy Fieri ever thought of it. And for the most part, small-town Oklahoma does an excellent job of slinging the hash.

The one thing the perplexes me, though, are the things diners and cafes take shortcuts on. One of my favorite places does an excellent homemade biscuit, then they cover it in gravy from a bagged mix. I mean, seriously folks, gravy is so dadgum simple to make, I cannot understand anyone choosing to slather a beautiful biscuit or crisp, golden chicken fried steak in some reconstituted wallpaper paste. On the other hand, the bagged mix gravy is a far cry better than the other extreme, and that’s so-called gravy that results from a cook who doesn’t properly cook the flour when making the roux for his gravy. You gotta really cook that flour in the fat (preferably bacon or sausage grease) until it smells nutty, goes runny, and begins to color (yes, even for white, cream gravy). If you’ve ever had that thin, sweet gravy, you have experienced gravy that is a result of an undercooked roux, and it’s a shame.

And speaking of chicken fried steak, it is another menu item that is sometimes relegated to the shortcut category. When eating at a small town cafe, I will usually ask my waitress (and let’s be honest, 99% of the time the server is female, either a high school girl or a middle-aged gal who’s been working there for decades, often still in the uniform dress) what’s good there. Most of the time that works like a charm. It’s a tad disappointing, though, when I ask what’s good, and they say, “Oh, the chicken fried steak!” and I order it, only to discover it is a pre-purchased, pre-fab CFS. One look is enough to tell you that this steak was not gently battered and fried in the kitchen. No, someone ambled to the freezer, knocked a frozen chunk of meat loose with an icepick, and tossed it in the deep fryer. I’m not blaming the waitress, though, as I would have probably made the same decision without her recommendation; I have a predisposition toward CFS anyway. I just can’t fathom what kind of home life she must have had to think that the beige disc of meat product on my plate (likely covered in bagged mix gravy) qualifies as “good.”

The types of good CFS are plenteous, and I like many of the varieties. Whether it’s the dredged and deep fried to a hot-as-fire, crisp specimen bigger than the plate like Shortcakes diner in Stillwater or lightly breaded and pan fried to a light, even somewhat soggy, finish like Thomas in Pryor and Dot’s here in Claremore, or somewhere in between like Clanton’s in Vinita, I love them all. Unless they didn’t actually make it back in the kitchen. Then my sensibilities are offended.

I still remember eating at Shortcakes in Stillwater during my college days. With limited seating, a 24/7 schedule, and a grill out in the open just across the counter, Shortcakes typifies what a diner really is. And I can still remember the care with which the short order cooks would grab that fresh piece of beef and massage the flour mixture into it before deep frying it to golden perfection. It made a real impact on my life.

And, while we’re talking about shortcake (the food not the diner), let’s be clear. Strawberry shortcake is not made with angel food cake. Angel food cake is good. And angel food cake with strawberries is excellent. But angel food cake with strawberries is not strawberry shortcake, mainly because angel food cake doesn’t absorb all the precious strawberry juice. My preference is strawberries over pie crust, though that’s not technically a shortcake either. My mother prefers her shortcake to consist of strawberries over a Twinkie, which still isn’t real shortcake, but it’s certainly an option, though not my preference. Genuine shortcake is strawberries and a slightly sweet biscuit (akin to a scone). And the strawberries need to be prepared and sugared much ahead of time to allow them time to macerate properly. I prefer more juice than berries, over the biscuit or pie crust, and maybe a touch of whipped cream. Heaven on earth, especially if the berries were lovingly cultivated in my father-in-law’s garden.

Overall, Oklahoma’s diners are doing a great job of keeping me fat and happy. If they’d just commit to real mashed potatoes, genuine gravy, homemade chicken fried steaks, and pie-crust shortcake, I’d be on cloud nine, and they’d really have an answer when the fat guy from Claremore walks in and ask, “What’s good here?”