Living Out Loud Volume 3. You Are What You Eat

Ever since I was 12 years old and hit puberty I’ve had a love/hate relationship with food. I think it started when my sister called me fat. Even though I was a 4 foot 11 inch rail, she knew it would get to me and obviously it did, because from that point forward (or somewhere along the line) things changed. And maybe love/hate is too strong a phrase, because as much as I would like to blame food for the problems I’ve had with it over the years, let’s be realistic … is it really the food’s fault?

Trying new foods has been something I’ve made a passion over the past several years, since I first tasted feta, crawdads, and calamari. As a country girl working for an international department like Oceanography in college, I was exposed to tastes from all over the world, and dining out became a discovery of not just unexplored tastes and flavors and textures, but of cultures and traditions and all new ways of life. It was a universal experience. Olive oil with bread; who’da thunk it.

But I’m not much of a cook, though I like to, when I’m in the mood. Last night, after a fantatic and filling hamburger, bun and french fries, I was not in the mood. To cook, or eat. After driving around aimlessly, I wandered into a new Mediterranean restaurant at Hilltop but walked out after realizing they served only sandwiches and salads.  Not different, not new. Next I wandered over to Nawab, thinking I’d try out a new Indian dish, but they were incredibly busy, and I wasn’t in for sitting around waiting for takeout. So off to the Fresh Market I go. Fresh Market is like a mini Whole Foods (now THAT is the store, and why we don’t have one here in Virginia Beach is beyond me). Perusing the aisles for something to catch my eye, I’m overwhelmed with the exotic choices. I could try pate, or escargot, or rattlesnake (just kidding, this store is too fancy for that, but I’da tried that if they had it).  I could go for some new sushi, (with my stomach lately, that’s a hell no) or maybe a box of cookies titled, “the kitchen sink.” That would be a first. Nothing inspires me. Nothing is a challenge. And then I see it, on the top shelf, next to the papergoods and spices. Its the ultimate dare to live like the other half. Not the rich, or famous, or better, or those that think they are, but MY other half. That would be Lollipop and Daisy, my two Beagles. Now, that’s new. That’s different. And its something that I wouldn’t be inclined to do at any other time. But come on, haven’t you wondered, (and I know you have) … “does Alpo really taste liked corned beef hash?” Isn’t that truly one of the mysteries of the world you’d like to have answered before you leave this great earth? Don’t you think it’s odd that they eat our leftovers but we never eat there’s? (Ok, no, that’s not odd).

Home we go then, (they rode with me) to fix their dinner and my … snack. They eat Wellness brand, because it’s “Natural Food for Natural Dogs.” Daisy was an 84 pound Beagle Worthog, so she’s on dry Healthy Weight. Lolli has no bottom jawbone and is handfed canned Duck and Sweet Potato.  Now that sounds appetizing. And I have to be honest, it’s a bit of a thrill to know I’m dreading this, because that makes it fun. One kibble. One nibble. That’s all.  Oh, the pleasures of living alone.

Well, I feel sorry for ol’ Daisy. Ugh. “The optimal balance of nutrient-rich whole foods to fulfill the unique health needs of your less active or overweight dog” smells like hay, has the consistency of a stale cookie and tastes like – nothing. Gerbil food maybe. No wonder she’s losing weight. No wonder she scarfs her bowl down and runs to eat Lolli’s dribble. This is so bland there’s no way she’s getting any joy from it. Suddenly I feel like a bad mom.

Lolli’s canned mixture “includes barley, carrots and flaxseed.” Well, it’ll provide fiber if nothing else. I usually dump her can in a bowl and then pick up a clump, squeeze it into a sausage-sized tube and guide it into her mouth like shoving a hotdog into an ATM machine – the gears inside (in this case, her enthusiasm) pulling it in without any effort on my part. I, however, am not gonna feed MYSELF that way, and besides, after that kibble thing, I’m thinking a little pinch’ll do me.  By this time both dogs (still unfeed) are looking up at me like I’m crazy, but I’m into it too far to stop now, so I pull off a sliver of the sloppy sticky gook with obvious sweet potato parts, and am hit with the nasty smell of ground meat stuff before it gets to my mouth. I think I heaved a bit but kept it on my tongue.

And really, it wasn’t that bad. It does have the flavor, texture, aftertaste, of corned beef hash (which I will NEVER eat again) with a side order of SPAM (which I don’t eat anyway) and a touch of potted meat (I was always scared of that devil on the wrapper). And its not something I’m going to crave or plan to eat again anytime soon, but its certainly not a valid explanation for why what comes out on the other end (of the dog! the other end of the DOG!) is so absolutely god-awful nasty.

That, however, is one mystery I’m not going to try and solve.