Cookies for breakfast?

I am studying in Florence, Italy for the Spring semester and chose to live with a host family. They are kind and generous, and love to try to get me to eat. Each morning, I eat breakfast at their home, and every evening, the Signora, Signore, and I share dinner together.

Now, breakfast is quite simple: little toasts with jam, instant coffee made with heated milk, and biscotti. Now, the first two items are not too surprising. But, for the last, I was expecting a type of biscotti, like those one dips in coffee in the US. No - these are straight up cookies. Pepperidge farm-like butter cookies topped with sugar. My first thoughts ran to the old commercials for "Cookie Crisp" cereal, where children tell their mother that they want cookies for breakfast. She replies "No, you can't have cookies for breakfast", and out of nowhere, a cartoon wizard emerges and chimes, "but you can have cookie crisp!" (Watch here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ln982_hkuJs&feature=related). So, every morning as I'm dipping my cookies in my warmish instant milk-coffee, I wait for this wizard to pop out and put a spell on me for eating cookies and not cookie crisp. I wonder if my cookies are a part of a balanced breakfast?

And then, there is dinner. Meals are varied, but often consist of soup or a bowl of pasta. I love pasta, but as everyone knows, it is very filling. And it seems that every night, after I somehow find room to fit the whole bowl of pasta, my host family says "formaggio?" - formaggio, means cheese, and also my dread. I think, "would it be rude to decline? where am I supposed to fit this?" And, most nights, I often cave and eat some cheese. But seeing that I ate the cheese, they offer me fruit. Ok, now we have problems. I think to myself : First the pasta, then the cheese, now they want me to eat fruit?! Don't they know there are limits to the human body??

Oh, and this is after drinking the two glasses of wine I also couldn't refuse.

So, after the first two nights, I decided to look up "I am not hungry" on an online translator and quickly picked up "basta" meaning enough. And somehow, I've programmed myself to immediately reply "no, grazie" when I hear the Italian word for "would you like more?", even before I fully comprehend what they've asked me.

I'm thinking about carrying a white flag in my pocket for the inevitable day they ask me if I would like dessert.

Orville Redenbacher: my enabler

I have a new addiction- microwave popcorn. And it seems, just at the wrong time. With the advent of "popcorn lung", all of us saps who love the white morsels could be doomed. What, you may ask, is popcorn lung? In recent news stories, I've learned it is a rare, lethal disorder that is popping up in factory workers who process the buttery kernels.
Read on: http://i.abcnews.com/GMA/OnCall/story?id=3565670&page=1

Wowsa! Who knew? Obviously, none of us. Are we doomed for ceremoniously breathing in that buttery goodness every time the microwave beeps? Possibly. And therefore, I've begun holding my breath each time I take out the bag. I recommend you do the same, but how can you escape the aroma that fills the entire floor of your kitchen? You can't, and sadly, neither can the cat.

At least, though, the cat will go down with me. Her addiction seems to be increasing along with mine. Has the lovely smell turned her on, or perhaps the tiny pieces I feed her off my shoulder while she peers down from the back of the couch? Can you be accused of animal abuse for giving a cat popcorn lung? Or would it be praised, for bringing so much joy to a fine feline with a love of snacking?


And finally...
Will you visit me in the hospital when I'm diagnosed me with popcorn lung? Or maybe, when I'm committed for my addiction? Whichever come first. Hopefully the latter. If nothing else, maybe you can sneak in a bag baked into a cake, or hidden in a boot. I've got ideas.