A little over two years ago, my daughter was born. At the time, I was in moderately decent shape; although I smoked, I ate fairly well, walked all over the place, and generally kept my weight in an area that my doctor and I considered acceptable. However, my daughter's birth, my decision to quit the demon cancer sticks, and the fact that I spent an insane amount of time on the couch with her quickly bore fruit. Within six months of her arrival, I had packed on about 20 pounds.

After I had to buy new, larger pants, I decided that enough was enough. I started going to the gym, watching what I eat, exercising more, and generally trying to regain my svelte, pre-fatherhood body. I spent a lot of time looking in the mirror, looking at my measurements, and looking at my diet. When I moved to New York, however, my weight loss began to slow, sputter, and even reverse a little bit.

It wasn't too hard to figure out why I wasn't losing weight like I used to. While I was busy looking at the scale, I wasn't looking at my neighborhood. On the bright side, the Vietnamese restaurant near my apartment has several relatively healthy offerings and the taco truck a couple of blocks away is great if I don't order cheese, sour cream, and fried meat. However, the Dominican bakery, with its seductive tres leches cake, the Puerto Rican Cuchifritos stands, and the various pizzerias, Chinese food joints, and Gyro restaurants all taunt me with their wares. While I'm pretty good at avoiding the siren song of KFC, Burger King, and all the other fast food places, I am a sucker for homemade, high-fat goodies.