Breaking Up Is Hard To Do When You Are Hungry

August 24th, 2012, 10:00 PM. Pondering a unwise decision, made for the sake of expediency.

I told myself not to do it again. Don't rekindle that relationship. It was a conspiracy, I tell you. Laziness, familiarity and inertia trumped my better judgement. Pride keeps me from shedding any tears. There, so close, so easy...all I had to do was open the door and remove the wrapper. Even now I cannot get the taste out of my mouth.

Seriously. It's been almost four hours, and the aftertaste won't leave my tongue. What exactly was in that "merlot" sauce sticking to the "beef" in the bowl? I don't know for certain, but it is most persistent. This has induced in me a vague shame and mild exasperation, because I know better than to do what I did. Rather, my belly knows better.

See, here's the deal: tonight I found myself alone, all bachelored-up until Sunday afternoon. the house nearly empty, the fridge in the same sad state, while I frittered away a perfectly good afternoon playing a game on the computer. My game playing activities impinged upon getting a jump on dinner, so I found myself in the dilemma of quickly scrounging at home or going out to eat. As I was alone and somewhat short on cash (and feeling incredibly lazy) I scotched the idea of eating out. I was left with the fridge, which wasn't being particularly helpful.

Did I mention I was feeling lazy? So lazy I couldn't bother myself to boil water for pasta, for cripes' sake. Jeez. That is lazy. Without that, my options were even more limited. I continued to poke around in the fridge and freezer, hoping against hope that a fine Bolognese sauce might appear, or maybe some cumin-dusted green beans and potatoes.

No such luck. That's when I saw it, sitting on the top shelf of the freezer. A frozen dinner, fresh-looking green package all aglow in the light. It was a standard meat and potato dish, small portion size and Only 220 Calories! It proclaimed itself to be Healthy! even. I stood there for a few moments, blinking dumbly at the box. I knew full well my culinary fate was sealed. I took the box out of the freezer and padded over to the microwave. BeepBoopBeep and four minutes later, voila! Melancholy makes its own sauce!

I told myself, this time it would be different. This time, the taste would match the promise. I would eat my way to the bottom of the plastic tray and lean back in satisfaction. All the while thinking "Hey, it's okay, it's all right. Not world-class cuisine, yeah, but fine."

Yet again, I was wrong. The evidence is in the back of my throat. To be fair, it was certainly edible. It did have some nutritive content. It would pass muster as wholesome, I am sure.  But the evidence doesn't lie. I can't get the vague chemical aftertaste out of my mouth. It is there, this 'presence' that wants to be fine food but ends up being more 'food' than food itself.

Until tonight I had not eaten a frozen dinner of the gourmet plastique variety in months, if not a year, maybe longer. That is because each time I did, I always regretted letting convenience get in the way of goodness. Maybe it is just my own quirky palate, but I had long noticed a sameness to most of the frozen dinners I had ever eaten, a sameness that made me think of test kitchens and assembly lines, and tanks of chemicals labeled Italian Homestyle Flavor and Beef Facsimile and Real Roast Chicken Substitute. It seemed especially acute to me in anything that had a tomato sauce. No matter what the maker called it, they all smelled like the same thing: sauces that market research and focus groups had determined were Real Italian Spices in Italian Tomato Sauce Just Like Mamma Used To Make. And every single one of them left me holding my nose and wondering why they couldn't just use real oregano instead of something that made me think of persistent chemical agents. Plus, with an aftertaste like Banquo's ghost.

So I sat here feeling slightly ashamed, wondering when the "beef and merlot sauce with vegetables" would decide to leave me alone. I think I knew in my head that it just wasn't going to work out, but I let my guard down. Bad pennies and mediocre meals, they just keep showing up...and I keep picking them up because they are shiny and easy. 

Next time, I promise, I'll boil that water. My sauce may not be as easy, but it will taste better and have the good manners to not accompany me to bed.

Tell Us, O Master, What Is Perfection?

"The perfect blend of spices, cheese and bread crumbs for you to make something wonderful..."

...Or some such drivel as I was about to push the 'Off' button. The tag line caught my attention. I was momentarily transfixed by what I was hearing and seeing on the tube. So now a Very Large Company has rolled out a new product to further relieve a long-suffering public from the burden of actually thinking about what they may want on their food. This company has combined spices (their choices), cheeses (their choices) and bread crumbs (simplicity itself to make).

Spices. Cheeses. Bread crumbs. All in one convenient (petrochemical-based plastic) package.

I watched the happy family gathered around the (perfectly) golden brown and delicious Spice/Cheese/BreadCrumb encrusted chicken breasts, and wondered if it is truly possible to know perfection if you refuse to try and define it yourself.

Because the contents of that bag were defined by market research and focus groups, and 'cheese' as generic monikers, combined with the seemingly insatiable appetite for convenience. Letting a faceless group constantly define the edges of taste and experience means giving up discrimination and control; it means giving up the ability to self-generate one's true likes and desires. If you give up that ability, then you will probably never know perfection. The hollow feeling in your stomach that you believe to be hunger is really the maw of an appetite that will never be fulfilled.

Turning off the television, I resolved again to seek my own perfection, away from the false promises of a Very Large Company. The search will be more work, but the result will be my own.

Bloating Down The Stream

Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls, dogs and cats, big news: Irish Gumbo is expanding.

Is it a web portal of my own?  Is it the burgeoning of a publishing empire?  Is it the long awaited launch to fulfill my dream of owning a company that corners the market on t-shirts with snarky or ironic or just plain odd slogans and fake advertisements?

Sadly, no.  What is expanding...is mah belleh.

I have noticed more than once in the past two weeks, that some of my shirts and some of my pants are now bit more taut than usual when I put them on.  One of the shirts, a sort of shiny wine-colored number that I've been wearing for a few years, now gaps out at the buttonhole closest to my waist when I sit.  This perturbs me.

I am fortunate to have a metabolism and body type that, while not exactly svelte, I have not had to fight to keep from becoming too heavy for my own good.  In general my health has been pretty good considering that I do not get enough proper exercise* to stay toned up and fit.  So in general, I've managed to squeak by on the maintenance side of things.

But, now?  Perhaps I need to reconsider.  Exercise will have to brought on board.  Diet and nutrition will have to be improved**.  I will have to find a way to tame the cravings for le cuisine junque to go away, as my appetite for the salty-chippy-cheesy snacks has been fierce lately, and I think it is beginning to take its toll.  Also (and this could be really tough) I need to cut back on my indulgence in sandwiches of the Italian cold-cut variety.  I loves me a hoagie, no doubt.

I have also been possessed of an increased appetite in recent weeks, something I don't have a good explanation for at the moment.  I feel most days like I may not be eating enough, as my trade deficit with the company snack box would seem to indicate.  I need to get a handle on this soon, though, or there will definitely be handles on me...love handles.

And I'm not convinced anyone wants to see that on the Gumbo!

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*Unless you count running around the office like my hair was on fire.
**Try as I might, I cannot figure out a way to get Doritos and potato chips to be defined as 'pasta or grain'.  Damnit.

The Pork? Meh.

So I mentioned a sandwich yesterday. I went to a local 'cue restaurant (which shall remain unidentified for now) as I feeling rather carnivorous and jonesing for some smoked meat. The special was a pork sandwich, bunned, sopped in spicy sauce. It was plenty o' meat, I had every reason to believe that it would hit the spot. Or at least come close enough to the spot that I could make it to dinner without undue snackage. It arrived on a plate accompanied by a mound of green beans (more on those later), looking all cute and yummy. Just the hit I needed!

Then I took my first bite. Ahhh....wait. Hold on. chew,chew,chew..? Pork it was, and there was a sauce like substance. The pork was a bit dry, chewy (although sometimes that isn't necessarily bad), but it didn't have that lusciousness a good BBQ needs. The sauce was wet, sure, but no kick. Hey, man, where's the HEAT, the TANG? A few bites later, I was getting desperate. I was so hungry though I couldn't give UP. Plus I was paying for this! Finally, I had to admit defeat. The 'cue was just, well, meh.

It didn't suck, but it didn't really satisfy, you know? You know that saying about pizza:

Pizza is like sex: when it's good, it's REAL GOOD, but even if it is bad, it's still pretty good.

That doesn't apply in this case. Mediocre seems a bit worse than truly AWFUL, at least then righteous anger is justifiable. Here I was just disappointed. They could have done better. They HAVE done better.

So it was with a sigh I turned to the green beans. Hallelujah! There amongst the crunchy greenness were bits of crispy bacon. And just about everything tastes better with bacon on it.

Now, if had only had a pint to go with it...

Query: How do you feel when you get mediocre food? Does it make you sad, or do you just suck it up and go back to work? How about a Worst Food Experience? I'm curious.

(Note: I left out names because I want to give them another chance. I like them, but like a friend with less than fresh breath, I haven't figured out how to TELL them.)