Friday, August 28, 2009

New Orleans Dieting

Po Boy Views
By
Phil LaMancusa
The Behinder I Get
Or
Grease Is The Word
Okay, here I am off and running to and fro, hither and yon, plum and nelly (plum outa time and nelly outa breath) and I’m multi-tasking like a headless mo-fo chicken, like a witch out of work, like my pants are on fire and my ass is catchin’ ; I’ve got my life racing with the pedal to the metal and if I don’t eat soon I’m gonna faint pretty quick… I’m gonna faint pretty quick… I’m gonna faint pretty quick. I spot a Munchy-Lunchy-boxey -thingy at the store and for me it’s a hit and run situation... grab and go… git and split. I’m a twin pipe Papa and a bad go-getter and I stop long enough to peruse the contents before woofing it down on my way to passing Go…
…and I consume (in record time)…:
1 slice each Ham and processed (yeller) cheese on white bread with mayonnaise, a 12 oz cola, a 1 1/2 oz box of raisons, a brownie the size of a shoe sole and 4 oz of chocolate pudding. There is no nutritional information on the package. What the hell, if it’s good enough for kids to eat…
Can you imagine tooling down the road at ninety miles an hour and slamming your car into reverse? Can an injection of that much sugar and processed food send you into a physical tailspin? Can you really gain and lose five pounds in a half an hour while getting night sweats in the daytime plus dry mouth, blurred vision, a headache in your left eye and enough gas to power an eighteen wheeler cross country? You betcha.
I know that you’re thinking that a delicate flower such as I should not attempt to consume a meal that should come with warnings about the side effects and to leave such meals to those accustomed to such fare; namely, the spawn of Satan. The question arises, what are we feeding ourselves? What are we feeding our children? What are we feeding the spawn of Satan?
“My foot’s on the throttle and it’s made of lead,
I’m a fast ridin’ daddy with a real cool head’.
Buddy Holly’s on the box singin’ Peggy Sue,
My foot’s on the floor and it’s made of glue.
I swing a huey at sixty for the Waffle House I just passed,
my ride’s low and fast and it’s fully gassed.
There’s smoke from the brakes as I slam into the lot,
I want eggs over greasy and some java that’s hot.
I call to Steve the waiter “hey, gimme the works;
eatin’ like a bird is for sissies and jerks!”
… and he brings me (and I consume)…
The breakfast special: Waffle, eggs, hash browns, grits, toast and choice of meat, which I wash down with the ‘bottomless’ cup of coffee. Syrup and sugar, non-dairy creamer, Jams, jelly and whipped butter spread flying everywhere. Salt, pepper, ketchup and hot sauce for all my friends and a yard of paper napkins with the waitresses calling everyone ‘Honey’ or ‘Darlin’ and ‘did you want that pie ‘A La Mode’? What the hell, if it’s good enough for pot bellied truckers…
As you can guess, I rolled out of there like Humpy Dumpy and my speed limit was as diminished as my metabolism, my eyes were filled with that double vision and did I have sense enough not to stop for a giant malt at the soda fountain? No. Am I the spawn of Satan?
The diet gurus all tell us that a vegan diet with an eye toward nutrition is the way to a long and non-suffering life. Health officials tell us that 36% of American adults are considered obese and that the Mediterranean diet is the way to go for longevity free from diabetes, cancer and coronary artery disease. BUT, can you picture stopping off, starving, at a quick fix fast foodery for a “Hey Doris! Gimme some whole grains with veggies, legumes, extra virgin olive oil and goat cheese followed by some fresh fruit and yogurt; make it snappy because I gotta haul this here semi of sheetrock to Abilene!” Not in this lifetime.
What I definitely want is a juicy steak or burger or hot sausage sandwich. I want fried chicken. I want a baked potato with butter, sour cream, cheddar cheese and bacon bits. Everything that tastes good is bad for me. Mayonnaise, ranch dressing, butter and anything deep-fried…YUM!!! More cheese Mom!!!
I’d rather sit on a barstool, commiserating with my peers than exercise. Is that wrong? I want to stand on the corner at all hours of the night and eat Lucky Dogs. Tortilla chips with that melted cheese product and jalapenos. Chicken fried steak with biscuits and gravy. Big Muffalettas and fried oyster poor boys. Strawberry shortcake and a slab of that sweet potato pecan pie with ice cream and chocolate sauce. Would you say that I have an eating disorder?
I don’t. because if I gave in to my culinary fantasies, if I ask them to throw that roast beef and gravy poor boy into the deep fryer or if I let the words “Super Size” pass my lips I’d be rolling down the street saying “hey hey hey! “ like Fat Albert. I’m high enough on cholesterol and my blood doesn’t want the pressure of a stupid American diet of Fast food triple burgers and oil drum sized soft drinks, of candy bars and processed foods. But I love them.
And my body will not tolerate them anymore. For years, as a cook and a chef I would not have that stuff in my life or house and now I’ve reached the point where my guilty secret pleasures come back and bite me almost immediately. Instant junk food karma.
And like the fields of weed that I’ve smoked in the past; that stuff makes me slow and stupid. And at my age with all the stuff that I need to get done, I can no longer afford to be any more slow or stupid than I already am.
So to us that wear those extra pounds because of the weaknesses of our wills…I salute us. Yes. I know how hard it is to be strong in the face of a banana split. I’ve got your back. That’s me in the corner making S’mores.

1 comment:

woman of few words said...

May God keep us in fighting trim...