Some of us wake up in the morning and go for a brisk jog in the crisp autumn air (or so we hear). Others sit outside Pottruck for our mid-morning cheesesteak-and-cigarette break and watch the lines forming behind the elliptical machines in cracked out wonder, terror-stricken and fascinated at the notion of physical exertion before noon. So you haven't felt an endorphin since P.E. was a required class, Mr. Olympia doesn't even make a blip on your consciousness and the very mention of Atkins makes you want to pummel someone's face with freshly baked baguettes.
Feel a little defensive? Well so do we, and we're committed to defending our kind in the onslaught of low-carb imperialists bent on the annihilation of bread as we know it. What, did the low-fat infatuation of the '80s not institutionalize enough of us? For the love of pomme frittes, Food&Drink presents the I Heart Carbs edition. We don't give a flying fuck if our asses start to look like spaghetti; we think we look good enough to eat. So there.
