As a kid in the 60s and 70s, addictive activities were a normal part of my childhood. We were oblivious to nutritional concerns like grams of sugar and carbohydrates. On weekend mornings, for example, my parents would sometimes take me to a local pancake house and I'd always order the apple pancakes. The stack of ten flapjacks served before me was so big that sitting next to it, I looked like a helpless Lilliputian, and the question had to be asked: Was I going to eat the pancakes, or were they going to eat me? Of course, I ate the pancakes, every last one of them. They were delicious--drowning in apple pie filling, smothered in creamy-soft butter, and then finally doused with a half-gallon of maple syrup. I would wash the pancakes down with several tall glasses of orange juice. The amount of insulin-spiking sugars I consumed during these breakfasts were so high that my morning indulgence would have given a modern-day endocrinologist a cerebral hemorrhage. Not surprisingly, I would go home, and rather than spend time with my friends who could be heard outside playing, I would be catatonic and nauseous in my bed for several hours in what could be called a Carbohydrate Coma.
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