When my intestines started barking around 11 this morning, there were a few possible culprits.
Most signs would point to the pepperoni-and-cheddar sandwich I had for breakfast. (On whole wheat! Healthy!) (…with mayo.) However, the grumbly tummy also could’ve been tied to the triple-grande mocha that had so jolted my system I actually found myself wondering if the grumpy little barista had laced it with cocaine. I don’t know why a grumpy little barista would exercise her anger by being so generous with her cocaine stash, but logic is not the strong suit of the hyper-caffeinated Banana.
Come to think of it, that pepperoni had probably expired, too.
Things seemed to have settled down after a trip to the gym, but I wasn’t gonna let my digestive system off the hook that easily. For lunch, I got a Tropical Smoothie, which I’m pretty sure is just semi-frozen, fruit-flavored chemicals with soy protein. It led me to conclude that if shit’s gonna taste like Robitussin, it ought to at least get you drunk.
What makes all this worse is that I usually take a good bit of pride in my culinary sophistication. I can appreciate a well-cooked fillet or a fresh, simple marinara sauce; I exist in a constant state of craving for foie gras and proper Hollandaise.
And then I think, “Ooh, questionable cured meat and orange dairy! What a way to start the day!” and proceed to dose myself with stimulants and hospital-flavored milkshake. It’s not so much bad eating habits as laziness combined with a lapse in dietary prudence: Thinking up a good meal was just too much effort, never mind actually executing one.
Well, at least I took my vitamin.
Aaaaaaand now I’m eating croutons right out of the bag. Dammit. Who put these here?!
I mean, it’s acceptable—trendy, even—to appreciate good food and still crave the occasional McNugget. Anthony Bourdain openly admits his love for KFC mac ‘n cheese. But I’ve yet to eat anything today that even qualifies as food. It’s hard to picture Mario Batali chowing down on some potpourri and Play-Doh and then licking the carpet.
Wait, actually, that’s pretty easy to picture. Bad example. (Also, whoa: Things Mario Batali and my cat have in common.)
Anyway, parents to the rescue. Though Ma and Pa are the ones who introduced me to 50s-tastic fare like fried Spam sandwiches and mayo-topped canned pear salad, they also laid the groundwork for my appreciation of real, home-cooked food, made with fresh ingredients and love, seasoned with salt and expletives. For tonight’s dinner, they’re serving smoked Boston butt, fresh-cut coleslaw and homemade, baked mac ‘n cheese. Not only would my grandmother have recognized these things as food; she’d have shown you how to cook ‘em.
After dinner, I’m thinking I should probably head to the grocery store. I’ve got nothing but tonic water and pickle relish in my fridge, and that makes me scared for tomorrow.