• D. Randall Faro

Sugar Daddy

Truth be told, I like sugar. Granulated white sugar. Brown sugar. Confectioners sugar. Beet sugar. Cane sugar. My sweet tooth goes to the bottom of my left foot. I have ecstatic dreams about scenarios like: doing a one-and-a-half off of a three-meter springboard into a pool of heavily frosted cinnamon buns.


The long of it is: I have been this way since I could pronounce the word doughnut. The short of it is: it’s not my fault. It’s the, you know, DNA thing. We can’t help the way we’re made, and some concoction of delicious forces banded together to inundate my genetic profile with C12H22O11. Want to make my day? Deliver those forty-five atoms in multiple edible forms to my palate and you’ll see a happy camper. An attempt to alter that in me would be akin to changing my Intelligence Quotient. And please don’t mess with my IQ because it’s very happy with sugar.


Anything wrong with a lifelong love affair with sweet? Yes and no. As the saying goes: “Moderation in everything . . . including moderation.” Like anything else, the limit is the thing. Obviously (look around), one can overdo a sweet fixation. But within reasonable limits, it can be both enjoyable and healthy. Dieticians understand that glucose is necessary for our health and all the cells in our body need it to function. But they’ll also tell us that too much will increase the risk of several diseases, so we need to find the balance.


For a sweets-aficionado, I appear to have found a pretty good balance for a honey-loving fellow in his mid-70s. Metabolic rates, along with a lifelong dedication to physical exercise, could be a significant factor. I look at a piece of rhubarb pie (and if I look at it, I’m going to eat it) and I see roughly 400 calories. That simply means running 3.6 miles and I’m back to zero. Eat up!


Chocolate-covered graham crackers. Black Forest cake. Crème brûlée. Bring ’em on! Call me Sugar Daddy if you will. It fits.


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