Caustically Optimistic

Relentless

Yesterday, after a brief audience with Colonel Sanders, Emperor of the Commonwealth of Kentucky I gained a dispensation to leave before the end of the Derby Festival and upon receiving it fled to Colorado. I've been in Denver and the surrounding environs and will get about forty-eight solid hours in. I always enjoy traveling in Colorado in general and Denver specifically. Approaching Denver is like approaching the Emerald City in the Wizard of Oz. It rises out of no where and presents it's impressive skyline to the traveler and seems to welcome them in from the austere loneliness of the surrounding farms and ranches.

So far, this trip has been a brilliant success. My boss insisted that I take some time off and relax but I think I should introduce him to Emily or let I'm spend the day with her. I enjoy visiting Emily because you'll have a full day, everyday. I think she has Carpe Diem tattooed on the back of her eyelids.

Today we went to the Furry Scurry which benefits the Dumb Friends Society which I was surprised to find out had to do with animals. I spent the entire ride over wondering why - if the friends were dumb - you'd want to or would be able to help a friend who was stupid. We walked around a park for an hour with a herd of corgis and helped raise (I think) over a million dollars for homeless pets the Denver area.

Emily's corgi needs companionship during the day and there was a co-jack (Corgi, Jack Russell mixed) in need of adoption. We headed put to the shelter and Emily and Ginny made their introductions with the yet to be named Co-Jack.

Ginny is a very spirited and relentless corgi. She is a furry creamsicle of energy. She's also an only canine and one can never really know how they'll react to someone being introduced into their pack. Ginny was initially cool to the puppy and perhaps a wee bit annoyed at his Russell-tactic-ness (if that wasn't an all out assault on our language, what is?). The-puppy-who-must-not-be-named is currently being tolerated by Ginny and she'd like me to note that its the puppy who should not be petted, played with, held, talked to, noticed, fed, watered or walked. She's currently occupying her old bed so that her little brother cannot use it (live with it, Ginny, he's staying).

After the trip to the shelter we went through the foothills because it is too cold for us to willingly wander into the mountains. We went to Morrison, Idledale, and Evergreen. If there is am ugly part of Colorado I've not been there. We were able to walk Ginny and Puppy-who-hasn't-yet-been-named around and it didn't wear them out at all. Corgis are relentless, even Co-Jacks. We were able to see sights, buy candy, and do the "trip to Colorado isn't complete without a" wine tasting. Normally, I like all the winds and tumble down the mountain but this time I noticed some of the subtle differences and what I don't like in a wine. Emily noted that she was noticing the different notes in they wine herself - I lack her vocabulary (and refinement).

The fun after returning Emily's home wasn't the Ginny & Ginny show, where the delightful and jovial corgi runs circles around the world and makes watching a goofy movie with a bottle of wine an event all its own. Instead, we had a sociology lesson from the dejected and jealous corgi as she responded with all the aplomb of an eighth grade girl who's just announced that she hates her parents and the whole world is against her. She looked ten times more hurt than when I leave my Molly in the morning to go to work. She was cool with the puppy when they were hanging out but was horrified when she realized he was staying. It was cute, funny and very sad. If you're reading this Molly, I'll never do that to you.

Tomorrow I return to the Commonwealth, my only instructions being from the Colonel that I shouldn't have anyone else's chicken on my breath. Most of the time when you leave a place after a vacation you'll note that it was a nice place but you wouldn't want to live there. Colorado isn't that place. I hope to grow up, get a real job, and move to Colorado.

Mc Rib

One of the things I loved about teaching directly under the sun in Phoenix was the ability to leave for lunch.  We would usually just go to Wendy’s, McDonald’s, and when the gods of cellulite smiled on us, Chino Bandito.  One of the things I don’t like about schlepping cars is all the eating we do. 

Now, we do eat better as we make more money than teachers.  Yes, Valerie, I come home and roll around in my money.  We eat well, but we eat a great deal and often.  I’m still a big fan of the fast food but my coworkers are not.  They want to keep the local restaurants open and vibrant. 

I was surprised the other day, when my friend Sara posted on her Facebook that she had a Mc Rib, when we were thrown into a frenzy to find them.  My coworkers love barbeque and are very discerning about what barbeque they eat.  I was shocked that they not only wanted to find as badly as I did, but also engaged in my practice of calling everyone and everywhere that might have the answer to my question.  We called every McDonald’s in our county, the close ones in surrounding counties in Kentucky and Indiana.  I also called a few in Cincinnati that were (falsely) reported to have them. 

I mean, really, it’s probably not even pork and I have no delusions that it is actually rib meat. 

We then sent juvenile text and Facebook messages to Sara about her Mc Rib eating self.  How dare she bring up yet another Mcdeficiency of Kentucky and high point of Nebraska?  I regret that because I hate to be the tool that is an Internet/Text Message tough guy.  I just want to have a Mc Rib.  Today at Qdoba, the tool at the counter was telling my mother and I about how they do things in Germany – without realizing that she’s German and I grew up there – all I could think about was, “Great, now he’s ruined my burrito by reminding me it isn’t a Mc Rib.” 

I felt like an oldster on the phone telling the one guy, Nick, that in my country when I was his age they had Mc Ribs all the time and it was as ordinary as a hamburger to see it there.  Nick promised that he’d call us as soon as they bring it back because it is apparently not a big mover here in Kentucky – the fattest state where they’ll eat just about anything and the highlight of their life is a horse race that, if it lasts two minutes, is a bad one.  I promised Nick that in return that I’d name my first son after him but Sarah asked me to stop doing that because the poor kid already has a name longer than most princes of minor principalities. 

Please feel free to mail me a Mc Rib.  Just don’t mail it to work, because while I will still eat it I wouldn’t want to have to share.  

Bachelor Pizza

Sunday is a “Stuff White People Like Dot Com” day for me.  I go to church, listen to NPR, go to brunch, and then do something in the afternoon that would be featured at Stuff White People Like.  One of the things that I listen to on NPR is Splendid Table which is probably named that because the website was free.  I imagine that goes into consideration for many people when naming things since Al Gore linked up the series of tubes we call the Internets.

For the uninitiated, Splendid Table is the radio show for people who love to eat.  You can read all about it other places but the radio host’s raspy voice inspires you to cook neat things and eat well.  Today was a peculiar Sunday because I went to church and left alone so I was listening to the host talk about cooking Mongolian rabbits while sitting in traffic eating Chicken McNuggets.

Another person who inspires me to cook is my friend Emily, author of the Singing Culinista.  One of her first entries was about making an Italian style pizza and I think you’ll enjoy reading it.  I decided to make pizza as well.  Before you read on, you should read her post and Valerie, make sure Tyler takes notes since it will be a while before I can teach him this in person.

 

Bachelor Pizza, a recipe for Tyler

Emily’s blog exists for Emily’s reasons and she explains that pretty well.  My blog exists to entertain people, mainly Valerie who is teaching partner from long ago, and to do a third task which is to educate her son, Tyler - crown prince of Coo-Coostan.  Ashley and I were anointed his aunt and uncle but since I am so far away I cannot teach him in person and must write.  This recipe is a recipe that Tyler should be able to cook – but my money is on the house burning down.  I say that as someone who loves you Tyler.  Please only do this if Kinley is there to supervise.  

Emily’s post begins with a martini and from the beginning we diverge.  I started mine with a good bottle of Samuel Adams.  I chose the Samuel Adams because there is history between Sam, Emily, and I – also Elizabeth.  We three used to vacation together before Elizabeth was married and I was stupid.  We’re hoping I un-stupid soon and can vacation again.  

 

The first thing that Emily did was make dough; I bought dough at the grocer.  At this point my partner in crime, Cindy, is probably having a fit.  Her pizza recipe involves a bottle of red wine and a telephone but the idea of the Pillsbury Doughboy kneading your Italian bread needs is a blasphemy that may drive her back to the rosary.  However, I don’t feel too bad considering the garbage her mother Nettie has feed me, sullying the good name of Italy. 

The next step in making a bachelor pizza is to spread some sauce onto the dough, unfortunately I couldn’t find any pizza sauce at the grocer and I didn't know if we  had any at home.  My father is trained as a chef and told met had he known I was going to do this would have made sauce or let me use a good can of it.  Instead of traditional sauce I used a jar or spaghetti sauce because it is tomato based but not ketchup.  I am not above using ketchup because I am a bachelor but I didn’t want Cindy to disown me.

Spreading the sauce around was a task to be done carefully because you want sauce over the whole thing but you don’t want it too think.  The other issue I had was that I intentionally picked a sauce with vegetables and garlic in it so I wanted to make sure there were chunks of vegetables all over the pan and not just in one location.  My father was pretty pissed that I used a jar that makes a decent back up when homemade sauce is time prohibitive. 

After that you need put on a good layer of mozzarella.  We had two varieties of mozzarella at home but since I was using dough from a can and spaghetti sauce I figured that some cheese in a bag would be just as well.  My parents – especially my father – have a bad habit of not using the American pronunciations of things AND using a fake accent when saying things like muzzarell.  I bought cheese because I didn’t want to have to ask where it was and then stab my father with a pen when I thought one of the Mario brothers had come in through the pipes. 

I’m not a huge fan of cheese so I spread it out in a thin, consistent layer.  I like mozzarella and it’s important to pizza but I’m not a fan of a pizza that’s mainly a piece of bread with melted cheese on top.  I’m also not a fan of a pizza so thick with toppings that you can’t appreciate the flavors of what you’ve put on it.  Getting the right amount of cheese on the pizza was very important to the success of the pizza. 

  Then I put pepperoni on.  Pepperoni pizza is one of my favorite kinds and I’ll confess an affinity for Pizza Hut’s because their pepperoni is crispy like bacon and not chewy.  My family has several different stories about why we converted from Judaism to Christianity but the version I made up in my head goes something along the lines of, “there is a lot of good Italian food that relies on pork products and/or mixing meats with dairy.”  Normally, I would have planned ahead and gone to the Italian deli for sausage or pepperoni but this was spur of the moment and I didn’t want to break up my bachelor theme by using good ingredients. 

Following along with the idea of this being a bachelor pizza I put a layer of pepperoni on the pizza covering it from one end to the other, not overlapping and un-stacked.  If I were making this pizza for friends or company I would have actually made some sausage, peppers, and onions in a frying pan, drained the grease, and used that as a topping.  That’s a bit cost prohibitive for me to make for myself, I can’t justify the expense or the time spent. 

The final step before putting the pizza in the oven is another layer of cheese.  I went light on the first layer of cheese so that I could put another layer of cheese on top without sacrificing the idea of crispy pepperoni.  Now, it is not going to end up as crispy as restaurant style pepperoni but if we went to the root of why that pepperoni is thin we’d probably discover that its sliced thin to save money and not to go for bacon-y goodness. 

Finally, you put it in the toaster oven.  We have been using a toaster oven because cooking is more energy efficient that way.  This would have been a disaster if my father hadn’t intervened because it was set to cook a frozen pizza – something that mystified us because Cindy’s mother hasn’t been there – and it would have cooked my pizza at a lower temperature but for a longer time. 

It was also fortuitous that my father was wandering back through the kitchen when my pizza was done because the timing suggested by the manufacturers didn’t include toaster oven directions meaning my pizza didn’t need to cook so long.  I was reading the labels on all the packages to ensure there were no corn-based products in the bachelor pizza.  My friend Casey cannot have anything corn or she’ll turn into a pillar of salt.  While that would keep the cows happy for a season or two it wouldn’t be that great for a friend. 

When your Dad uses his chef training (and his nose) to rescue your pizza you can be confident that it is ready.  Cut it into squares and serve with a cold beer, because that is how Lutherans do. It is also advisable to save your sister a piece or two – even though she’s protested this pizza being made – and clean the kitchen before your mother comes home.  This is a recipe that every man should know how to make in case there is some catastrophe like poor phone service which would prevent from calling out for pizza.  This is so easy even Tyler can do it, I did and so far no one has died. 

I know what you're thinking, Tyler.  "All pizza is bachelor pizza," which isn't false but this is pizza you would make with your own hands.  Speaking of your hands, I know where they've been and you should wash them before you do anything with food.  No one wants what you picked up at school or in all the other public places you go before you run into soap.  The beer is medicinal, it's a cure for craziness - a hereditary disease we get from our children.  

 

 

never touched a frying pan

The other night we went for Japanese food.  I am always torn between getting sushi or hibachi.  The people I am with usually get hibachi and it’s fun to watch the chef cook.  However, this time I was conniving and realized that I always have left over food and so does my father: I could get the sushi and have dad’s left over food the next day for lunch.  Our friend Linda was coming too and she would abstain from eating rice so I would not only have food for the next day, I’d eat like a king.  I was free to enjoy sushi and hibachi.

Whoa, getting the subject/verb agreement right in the sentence about Linda and the rice was a bear! 

Normally, Sushi for me is a team sport.  I started eating sushi with my father when we were another family from church who I feared was trying to impose their daughter on me.  The daughter has the bad habit of talking like a baby; apparently there are people turned on by that.  I always thought those people were called pedophiles but I could be wrong.  I rarely am.  Well, she mentioned that she thought sushi was, “icky” so I decided to eat sushi with my father in order to be repulsive.  It worked. 

I also discovered that I liked sushi.  We should have never doubted this.  I would revel in the absurdity of enjoying food that you pay extra to eat uncooked.  Other people I enjoy eating sushi with would be my friend Amber-san – who lost her sushi virginity (sushinity) with me (don’t worry Amber it was circumcised), Emily who does all things adventurous, and of course the teachers and Laura in Phoenix who always made it a competition.  I don't know what you do with your friends but apparently teachers and their friends imbibe.  I am amazed and appalled at how much sushi I am able to eat.

The waitress had trouble with English and I ordered enough sushi for two people.  One of the advantages of eating sushi with friends is getting a variety without paying an arm and a leg.  I didn't get the bill this time but next time I would insist upon it after seeing plate after plate of sushi.  It was good, but next time I may have to call for back up.  Amber-san, be ready! I can put away a lot of sushi but this was ridiculous.  

Of course, wasabi is an important part of eating sushi.  You mix the wasabi paste in soy sauce and then dip your sushi in it.  I have been tricked into, and tricked others into, doing shots of the mixture.  It’s cruel and funny.  Somehow while eating the sushi someone bumped into my air and caused wasabi to get into my nose.

It was the most pain I’ve been in, and I have been hit by a bus and struck by lightening (not at the same time).  Truly, I tell you: I am surprised I haven’t been hit by lightening more often and I don’t believe the person who told me I was struck by lightening but I am not going to let this get in the way of my story.  This was awful pain.  It was agonizing, excrutiating pain.  During the time it was in my nose I hit Linda, who was sitting next to me, writhed about, and offered prayers and supplications to the Lord because I believed Jesus would be coming to take me home.  I also had a thought bubble wherein DeAnn, the embodiment of my conscience, was saying, “Shame on you!  Hirsh!  Hirsh!”  DeAnn will be unhappy to learn that I orchestrated and planned my menu around eating other people’s leftovers.  You can’t eat today’s sushi tomorrow. 

The best part of this story is that my parents, so used to me being an idiot, didn’t even notice.  

Kianauts

I am happy to report that the United States Government is not the only one wasting tax money.  I heard on NPR (I know, a new-source of ill repute!) that the Government of South Korea had spent money to find a way to make kimchi fit for space-travel.  Apparently, gamma rays in space will mix with the bacteria in the kimchi and making it do something we’d hear from Melody about from a Science Fiction entertainment and kill the cosmonauts and astronauts in the space station.  Either that or it’d do something to the bacteria and it would come back to Earth and kill us all or mutate the humans. 

According to NPR the Koreans cannot live without kimchi.  I think the Koreans need to toughen up but I don’t pay taxes in Korea so who I am to judge?  I just hope they have Hyundai making their spaceship and not Kia; the poor bastard won’t make it to the stratosphere in a Kia and they would have wasted all that money on irradiated cabbages.   Yes that is what they did: they irradiated the kimchi so it wouldn’t have the bacteria that make kimchi, kimchi.  Essentially, they put it in the microwave for a couple of minutes and everything was fine.  One of my art professors at the University once said that some of the best things in Art happened on accident and perhaps this is true as well about science – I think he was wrong but he has a classroom and I do not so I’ll keep my opinions to myself.  No, no I won’t. 

I have no idea what you’d call a Korean astronaut or cosmonaut.  I’d call them a Kianaut since that is what I am alleging they’ll be strapped to.  I will delete all the comments that will come flooding in about how people have a Kia and love it or that they’re reliable or safe.  I know that some of them have high safety ratings but those come from the government – the same geniuses that brought us our economic situation, the Iraq war, unmitigated climate change, and a world-class public transportation network.  Okay, we don’t have the last one but I think you’re getting my point: they’re not exactly good what they do, or don’t do. 

Also, you do not love that Kia: you love what you paid for it.  I can’t wait to see you try and trade that bucket in.  I had a Saturn once and I would have told you that I loved it.  I would have sworn up and down that I loved that Saturn, but I am a liar and I was lying then.  I was very happy with the Saturn.  I was very happy that I wasn’t walking. I did not love it.  I wouldn’t want to be strapped to it and ride all the way to Connecticut again or from Connecticut to Arizona and I wouldn’t want to be strapped to it and shot into space.  I am sure the trade-in value of the Saturn directly correlates to the amount of change stuffed in the cushions and their ability to take the tires off the car and put them on another vehicle. 

And I wouldn’t want to go to space anyway, not if there is radiation that could somehow make kimchi worse.  Methinks the Korean government is actually using kimchi to control its people – both in the north and the south, around the world, and if they let it go into space it might lose its opiate qualities and allow the Korean Kianauts to see the truth.  They’d come back to earth and they’d free their enslaved brethren that have hitherto been drugged into believing that their government was good and kimchi was edible.  Don’t laugh, Australia, I know what you’re up to with the vegemite.  I’m very hard to fool.

 I just don’t see the point in going into space: we already have Tang and Velcro.  What else are we going to find in space?  They’re always telling us that we find a lot of inventions in getting ready to go to space and in going to space.  Considering our current situation the time of having so much money to waste on earth meant needing to waste it in space as well are long gone.  Why do we need to go into space?  Do we need to go to Mars?  We don’t need to bring back Martians for day labor or to outsource our jobs to Mars; going to Jupiter would be stupider.  Going to space to say we did it is stupid.  I’ve done a lot of things to do them and to say that I’ve done them and, ‘for science.’ 

Anyone who reads this knows that I do a lot of stupid things and if I am any example to anyone, if I’ve brought anything to the world through the work of my writing it should be this:  I am an idiot.  I do dumb, dumb things.  I am not an example to follow.  So please, lets not send the Kianauts into space, it seems foolhardy at best.  I’m also pretty confident, as confident as I am about anything, that kimchi and Tang being separately disgusting will not mix together very well at all. 

 

Grand Slam

The other day at Denny’s they offered unto us free Grand Slam Breakfasts.  I normally do not eat at Denny’s.  It is what I am talking about when I say, “I did things at university that I am not proud of.”  Contrary to popular belief and my own stringent mythology I do have a concept of shame.  I didn’t exercise it that day, I knew what a free meal at Denny’s would draw and I wasn’t going to miss it. 

I went with my mother, who was hard to get out of the house.  I thought we were going at seven and we didn’t leave until 10:00, we got there at 10:15 and sat at 10:45.  When we arrived I was excited to see a full parking lot; there were so many jalopies I knew I had hit the jackpot.  We didn’t wait long to be seated or to find a parking space.  The crowd was marvelous and vulgar.  There was a parade of mullets and then an exhibit of prison tattoos.  I was so disappointed that I couldn’t take pictures. 

The most comical part was my mother.  She sat, demure, on a bench and worked on her knitting.  She took compliments on her coach purse and politely carried a conversation with the person sharing the bench.  I think she was the only person there who had bathed in the last twenty-four hours.  I had not because my goal was to fit in with the other patrons.  I would have had to stop bathing a week ago to achieve that but I looked the part at least.

If I had to list the highlight of the visit it would have been a tie between when someone put a cigarette out in their pancakes and continued to eat them or when a mulleted person in a Sarah Palin t-shirt was called to their table but with the last name of professor I had in college.  This professor would only appear in public in a mullet and Sarah Palin t-shirt as a joke.  My mother said, “Did she call ‘Jewett’ and someone with a mullet and a Palin shirt follow her?  I can see her doing that, as a joke or on Halloween.”  This was so traumatizing that my mother took my camera and snapped off a picture.  We couldn’t get Sarah Palin in but we got the mullet and that’s enough to prove it happened.  It dominated our conversation because it was incongruent with reality.  I wanted to confront them, ask them if they were for serious, if it was really a joke.  I decided against it: cold pancakes = sad panda.  My mother and I concluded that we needed to burn down our house and move someplace better than this bizarre town.  

I also have to applaud Denny’s: they handed out enough food to feed half of India to the people of our town in little to no time.  It was a disgusting amount of food.  I was horrified my food was touching but I ate it anyway.  Gluttony would be my favorite deadly sin if Sloth weren’t so much fun and so easy.  I endeavored to eat all of the food but I could not.  I ate more than I should have but I felt if I didn’t eat myself sick that I wouldn’t get the full experience of the free Denny’s. 

While I was furtively stuffing my face with the food I was reminded of a conversation about this free meal with my friend from University, Amy.  She reminded me that we never paid at Denny’s, not once in the years we were there.  Nicole was always with us and she never let anyone pay because we never had a chance.  I am not really sure why they were giving away free food: their service is so terrible that I have never seen someone pay for their food in the first place.  Maybe they were just saving themselves a step, saving the manager the heartache of going through the motions of apologizing.  No matter the motive the result was what I wanted.  

food network star

I didn’t have television in Phoenix or Hartford so being back at my parent’s house has been an adjustment. I always forget how much I enjoy watching reality television – especially the shows that detail the lives of celebrities passed their prime.

I have also become a fan of food television, or is it the slow fat kid channel? I’m not sure what it’s called but we have been watching a lot of programs that show the cooking and eating of food. This has worked out brilliantly for me since that is what I tend to be doing while watching television.

I watched a show about a restaurant that I used to frequent when I lived in Phoenix and that made me want pancakes. There were other shows after that on pancakes and how different places make them. This inspired me to make pancakes for myself instead of my original impulse to have McDonald’s or Cracker Barrel make me pancakes. My parents are away at the family reunion so, while we do a lot of our own cooking, we’ve become too lazy to do anything.

Making the pancake batter was surprisingly simple. I have made pancake batter before – its not rocket science but this one show used their Kitchen Aide to make sure the batter was perfect, which I did as well. Then, following their advice to cook the pancakes I made breakfast for Chaos Bean and myself.

Of course, this didn’t go as planned. First, the Food Network shows you how to make something but it doesn’t condescend to describe cleaning up after the cooking. So while I had followed their directions to the letter and eventually enjoyed the pancakes cleaning the mess took twice as long as the preparation and eating did together. Also, one batch of pancakes shouldn’t make that much mess because I used the Kitchen Aide but my father is a chef and the Kitchen Aide on our counter is the size of a Volkswagen. We have others but I have no idea where in the equipment pantry they are or if I can lift them.

I also cooked the pancakes using the wrong frying pan, and thank Jesus (or whatever demon you worship)* that Chaos Bean realized this before I washed this – not realizing that some pots and pans, while mixed with the pedestrian pots and pans are not for everyday or untrained use. These same pots and pans also need to be washed with care. These same super pans burned the pancakes because, well, they’re magic. I’m Lutheran; we don’t have magic, free well, or predetermination. We do have Oxford Commas, chips on our shoulders, and an engrossment with bar-shaped desserts and cookies but no magic. Chaos Bean was gracious and said they were, “too brown,” which would have been like saying that Hiroshima had experienced urban renewal.

If I hadn’t used the wrong pan the pancakes would have still been terrible. I know this because when I realized how I was making them wrong I adjusted how I was cooking so that I could give Chaos Bean a breakfast of pancakes that didn’t look like so many denizens of Long Island and Phoenix have been in the sun too long. Chaos Bean has an awful job, I know because she hired me on part-time, and she deserves a good breakfast because that’s the only good thing that may happen in her day.

My point is this: I used special flour for baking special breads and this flour is very salty. My uncle is talented in making pancakes and has pioneered methods of putting fruit in them without burning them or the pancakes being disgusting. My friend, who writes Suburban Island, makes the best reservations for breakfast that you’ll ever take someone up on. I have pioneered a new pancake: the Pretzel Pancake. So, beyond making a mess of the kitchen and being over-cooked they were salty. I was really disappointed that I hadn’t gotten good pancakes out of the deal and had to face an enormous mess as a result of my efforts. I wonder if this was some sort of rare kitchen karma.

To ward against this happening again Chaos Bean and I went to the place where restaurants buy their food and stocked up on things you throw in the oven and then take back out. Sure, it’s not nutritious, delicious, or in any way something you should ingest but so far its not been burnt or tasted the way it should not so we’re going with what is successful.

*Spritopias: now 33% more inclusive and fortified with your daily serving of political correctness.

ring through my ears and sting my eyes

I have been working my butt off, literally, on this diet. On this weekend, of all weekends, I have decided to cheat on Dr. Atkins with my old lover, Oreo Cookies. I went to Super Stop and Shop to round up the delicious chocolate and crème sandwich cookies along with the other carbohydrates I have steadfastly ignored to the tune of forty-plus pounds lost. Super Stop and Shop should cross out the “Super” in their name because of all the products they carry, they do not carry Double Stuff Oreos.

Sure, they have the ones with yellow fillings for Spring and pink filling for Easter, chocolate covered Oreos, and even inverse Oreos with chocolate middles and Mint Oreos. When I asked the person from Nabisco who was stocking the shelves if they had any that they were hiding some place else in the store he offered me reduced fat Oreos. I consider those to be blasphemous, unnatural, and offensive. Reduced fat Oreos are like cartoons of the prophet Mohammed – completely out of line – but unlike my peers across the Muslim world, I do not wait several months to react to my offense. I told the person from Nabisco that reduced fat Oreos were offensive to me, and to Jesus.

I wanted Double Stuff Oreos. Nothing else would do. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. I was homicidal. I had to walk around the store for a while to calm down before I could consider operating the car. I have been accused of being homicidal before, and I have even claimed that I had been before, but today I was truly unhinged.

I had half a mind to call Melissa Potter because it reminded me of our college experience. Me from the East Coast and her from the West Coast: both missing not only our homes and families, but also product availability that people in the Midwest not only live with but gladly accept. Do you realize that when I was in college you had to drive to Omaha, an hour and a half, to get Reece’s Pieces? How many times did she have to shut me up in Pac-N-Save of Seward, when I would be incredulous at the idea that they did not have staple products like Breyer’s Natural Vanilla or Aunt Jemima pancakes? I will only admit to being ridiculous when I was hunting down Matzos in the Midwest. Eh, the more the Manshevitz, the closer to God.

You have no idea how many people I have conned into driving to Omaha for or with me. My mother would say, “Maybe God is trying to tell you that you don’t need the Reece’s Pieces” and alternately Double Stuff Oreos, my friend Amy replied, “God is just telling us to work harder.” The greatest length I ever went to for junk food involved driving the car down a bike path (I wore a helmet, making it legal). Of course, only Amy had God’s good sense to buy more than on bag of the Reece’s Pieces because my father was on the record for thinking us out of our damned minds to drive around like that with gas at eighty-seven cents a gallon. It leaves no illusions in my mind as to why most of the Pioneers pressed on through Missouri, Nebraska, into Wyoming and Idaho over the Rockies to Oregon. They were looking for a decent Albertson’s with fresh produce and all the junk food your heart could dream of.

I did not move to Connecticut, leaving my family and people only pretending to be my friend, to work at a job I do not like for too little money and not even have pretend friendships not to have Double Stuff Oreos on my birthday. I work too hard, am too miserable, to be denied this one, small, happiness. I did eventually find them in Target, an adventure for another day, and they were even on sale.

I realize that other people have lives harder than mine and would find happiness in much more substantial and simpler pleasures than a Double Stuff Oreo, but there is no accounting for taste and I will not tolerate being compared to ignorant people who suffer from acute culinary illiteracy. Certainly not, if I am ignoring my own mother reminding me that I am lactose intolerant and allergic to refined sugar – food does not make me happy, it usually makes me pretty sick.

And, lucky for Melissa - I was distracted by a shiny object and forgot to call her.