By Logan Peterson
It all started last Tuesday. I, with my naïve confidence, boasted that I could survive off of only carrots for a month.
Photo courtesy of Logan Peterson
Logan Peterson with his ten pound bag of carrots.
My roommates came together to bet nine beers if I could do it for a week. I would essentially deprive my body of all nutrients and minerals that make life possible for less than $20 in booze. But I was in.
It wasn’t about the beer. It was a test: a test of my own will, and a battle of mind over matter.
Day 1: I began the carrot diet after having one last hamburger in the morning—I thought I deserved at least that. For supper, I cooked my greatest (and only) carrot recipe I knew: chopped carrots with olive oil and garlic salt. It was good, but not filling. I finished the course with two raw carrots in hummus. I went to bed hungry but determined.
Day 2: This was when the cravings began. I thought about being done—giving up and buying my roommates beer for losing the bet. Plus, people kept telling me I’d turn orange. Throughout the judgment, I carried through. I ate raw carrots and hummus constantly. But it was much harder when I came home, as my roommate was cooking steak. From then on, I exiled myself from the kitchen.
Day 3: Day three was a Friday, which means Advocate editing day. I thought ahead and brought a bag of carrots and a gallon of chocolate milk to the office. Chocolate milk was my savior, as it provided nutrients and didn’t taste at all like carrots. I also began taking a multivitamin to prevent malnourishment.
Just when I thought the carrots were hitting the spot, editor-in-chief Aaron Simmons mentioned ordering pizza. Rude. (He waited until I left to order it, so he’s forgiven.) After I spent some time at the Advocate, I went home to take a nap. When I woke up, I felt weak and sick. Naturally, I ate more carrots in response.
Days 4-5: I made it through the night without cheating—mostly because of a carrot stew recipe given to me by a concerned classmate.
My next challenge came over the weekend since I went home. This would be a trial for any carrot-dieter, but I think it was especially bad for me. You see, my dad is an excellent chef. He also loves to make food—a lot of food. While I stayed there, he made enchiladas and soup and chicken and just about every non-carrot dish under the sun.
Thankfully, they packed the leftovers in a cooler and sent me on my way.
Day 6: With two days left, I doubled down on the raw carrots. They were easy to make, and with peanut butter, they didn’t taste much like carrots at all. I was hungry. I was tired. I was just fantasizing about the pizza I’d eat the next day.
I went to the grocery store to buy my final stock of carrots.
Day 7: This was the final day, and I hadn’t turned orange yet. I ate carrots constantly, but by 5 p.m. I was out of carrots. The only thing left was to wait for the clock to strike midnight. These final few hours were the hardest.
At 11:35 p.m. I preheated my oven to 400 degrees. I put my Tony’s supreme in at 11:40. Netflix held me through the last lap. At exactly midnight I tore into my prize, and the pizza was gone at 12:12.
Overall, I wouldn’t recommend this diet. It was dreadful, and any weight I lost was regained within the following days.
I’m writing this article while drinking a victory beer and savoring my accomplishment of making it through this ordeal.
Please don’t try this at home.