Last weekend, Chris and I went out on Saturday night for his birthday. And because he is a Francophile and borderline crème brulée addict, we revisited an excellent French bistro in Brooklyn (that we were introduced to by some wonderful friends).
We drove in a found a parking spot right across the street from our destination (stroke of freaking good luck, that)- Moutarde in Park Slope, and we were right on time for our 8:30 reservation.
And we ate.
Oh how we ate.
We started with slices of celery and peppers dipped into an array of spicy mustards. There was freshly baked french bread with creamy butter. A shared appetizer of escargot, entrees of duck confit and hanger steak with frites (read: fries) - we were beyond indulgent. To round out our meal (and our bellies), we had not one, but TWO desserts - crème brulée and two profiteroles with ice cream and covered in warm chocolate sauce.
My blood sugars were screaming at the very notion of these noshes.
"Nooooo! Kerri!!! You'll end up at 400 mg/dl, stupid!"
"Quiet, you. I'm having a night off from your hollering."
My husband and I cleaned our plates and topped our meals off with coffee (me) and cappuccino (Chris).
"So how is your birthday going?"
Francophile Sparling leaned back in his chair, smiling. "This is great. I loved this. I love French food!"
I reached into my purse and consulted the Dexcom, to see if my numbers were started to go berserk. I saw a flatline - 142 mg/dl and steady.
"Dude, I think I did this right. After all that food, I'm barely 140."
"Nice. Can we get another profiterole?"
I love a good night out with excellent food, excellent company, and excellent blood sugars. A few hours later, when we were climbing into bed, I checked the Dex again and saw that I was 103 mg/dl with a little arrow pointing straight down, showing that I was falling slowly, but still falling.
Meter confirmed: 97 mg/dl.
"Bah. I must have over-bolused. I'm going to grab a swig of juice."
Face-planted into the bed and slowly digesting thousands of French calories, Chris murmured "Mmm hmm."
I took a drink from the grape juice bottle by the bed and settled in beside him, feeling cocky about our indulgent dinner and it's lack of effect on my numbers.
So didn't I feel like a tool when the Dex started singing at 5:30 in the morning, announcing my 271 mg/dl to the entire room? Sweaters on teeth, that instant "Oh my God I have to pee" feeling, and my tongue weighing about 8 lbs - the whole mess.
I never, ever remember that the fat hits my blood sugars so much later. (And we ate a lot of fatty foods!) Stupid overconfident Kerri. You done been French fried.
"Kerri, we told you. We so told you."
"Enough! I am fixing this now and besides, it was worth it."
"Nope. The crème brulée!"