I am inclined to thank God on all occasions for anything I have to eat. Even food regarded as “healthy” is a blessing to my belly, for we are to consider trials and tribulations as “pure joy.”
My family didn’t eat turkey this Thanksgiving. We didn’t eat it last year, either. Yes, we’re still mostly proud to call ourselves Americans. And yes, we’re thankful the pilgrims didn’t die out that first year. But, the simple truth is that we’re not very excited by turkey… at least not any more.
Not long after I wrote “Eating Outside the Box,” I decided to do a little experimental cooking. Truthfully, most of my cooking qualifies as experimental. My mother didn’t fail to equip me with common sense in this arena, but I did fail to store that priceless tutelage on something more permanent than mental RAM.
Ah, independence. You’re living on your own, making a mark on the world, and you’ve got a modest amount of free time to spend however you please. Go where you want to go, eat what you want to eat! Or more accurately, eat what you can afford to buy.
Every once in a while, I spoil myself with terrible food. That’s not to say the food tastes awful—though sometimes that’s true. I mean terrible from the standpoint of what my brain thinks about what my belly wants. It’s a war that usually ends in a stalemate; my belly feels the pang, but my brain won’t condone the notion.