I have a confession to make about this post: I’m back-dating the entry to Saturday night, even though I’m writing it late Sunday morning.
That’s because I wanted to post last night — I planned to post — but I spent much of the evening in a Cheesecake Factory-induced food coma.
Which is not to say a Cheesecake Factory cheesecake coma, mind you. I didn’t actually have the cheesecake. Hell, by the end of the meal, there’s no way I could have had it — there was no more room down the food chute. They’d have had to shoot it into my ears with a turkey baster if they wanted it in me at that point.
Now, I know that may sound unthinkable to many of you.
(Not the ‘turkey baster in the ear part — from what I gather about the folks who read this stuff, that would only seem unthinkable to some of you. Pervs.)
Certainly, I know people who’s gasts would be all aflabber to learn that there are people out there — namely, my wife and I — eating at the Cheesecake Factory and not having cheesecake. For some people, that’s like going to Philadelphia and not having cheesesteak. Or going to Switzerland and not having chocolate, and watches, and secret bank accounts. Or going to Las Vegas and not having hookers.In other words, unheard of.
For me, though, it’s no biggie. I really didn’t plan on having cheesecake after dinner there. Or any dessert, for that matter — I’m not really a ‘sweet tooth’ kind of guy. So if I’ve broken some sort of unwritten cheesecake code, I apologize — but look on the bright side. That’s more cheesecake for the rest of you. Let there be much rejoicing. (Yay.)
I learned something at dinner about my wife. She’s been turned off of pasta. I had no idea — I only found out when I offered her a bite of my pasta, and got back that crinkly-nosed look that usually means the dog has farted.
(And yes, smartass, I mean the dog. Not ‘the dog’, all right? Homey don’t poot that way.)
Anyway, that’s when she told me that since she had a bad plate of pasta that made her sick — really, really sick — the next morning, she’s sworn off pasta altogether. Wow.
Now, I think for the moment, that’s probably a good idea. It wasn’t that long ago that her tummy trauma occurred, and we certainly wouldn’t want to see that again. One gastrointestinal joy ride is quite enough, I’m thinking.
Still, to swear off all pasta? That’s like a whole food group — it’s like saying ‘no’ to dairy, or fruit, or Guinness. That’s hardcore, people. I mean, I’ve had my dances with peristalsis, too. I once saw a bagful on Funyuns twice — going down, and coming up. I don’t even want to think about vodka tonics ever again. And then there’s the Halloween I remember not so fondly, thanks to seventeen fistfuls of candy corn I stuffed into my candy corn-hole.
(Did I just write that? ‘My candy corn-hole’? That is just so wrong. Why don’t you people stop me when you see this kind of shit coming? Say something, warn me, cut my internet connection, something! Jeez.
On the other hand, that’s kind of fun. Why should pie and cake have all the ‘hole’ fun? Now I’ll go out asking for porterhouse for my steak-hole, and iced chai for my tea-hole, and Easter candy for my marshmallow peep-hole, and — damn. It just happened again. I’m telling you — friends don’t let friends write this kind of crap, people. Warn me!)
Anyway, suffice to say that I’ve had my fair share of digestive dilemmas. And I’ve sworn off the specific foods above from my diet, sure. But that doesn’t mean that I refuse any artificially onion-flavored greasy snack, or eschew all clear liquids, or wouldn’t eat any sort of vegetable in multicolored holiday candy form. I guess I prefer my food phobias to be more specific, is all I’m saying.
Still, I wouldn’t have that much trouble swearing off pasta myself. Italian’s not my most favorite kind of food, and I’m pretty sure macaroni and cheese doesn’t count, so I could get by pretty easily, frankly. Of course, there is this one spectacular ziti dish that my wife makes… but if she’s off pasta, then I guess I’m not having that any time soon, either. So maybe I’m off pasta, too.
Just as soon as I finish the rest of this stuff I brought home from the restaurant last night — that shit was good. Thank heaven for doggy bags; if this is the last pasta I’m having for a while, at least I’ll go out yummy. Mmm-mmm.Permalink | 1 Comment