MY COMMUTE – when I take Metro – has me walking right by a Dunkin’ Donuts that’s on the ground floor of my office building. I like sugar-coated fried dough as much as the next girl, but to me, the ones at Dunkin’ are just so… ordinary. So unremarkable. Especially when compared Krispy Kreme, which produces what I believe is the absolute perfect glazed doughnut. They even spell “doughnut” correctly, and even though they use K’s where C’s belong, I’m completely willing to forgive this sin because the product is superlative.
I’m just not even tempted to pop into Dunkin’ on my way into the office. Maybe I would be if they offered a better donut. Maybe I would be if they had fountain sodas. Absent those two things, there’s no reason for me to do anything but walk on by.
It was this realization that inspired today’s Haiku:
It’s more hate than love, if I’m being honest. I tolerate them. And actually, it’s not just greens. It’s mostly all vegetables. Raw ones in particular. OK, fine, cooked ones, too. All the leafy greens. I eat them because I know I *ought* to, but they only taste good to me when I’m ravenous, and even then, if there are other attractive options, I won’t.
(This sounds a lot like how I feel about bananas. Do you sense a theme?)
Steve, being from the South, wants me to like cooked greens, but I just…can’t. I think they taste like lawn clippings smell. I didn’t grow up eating them and I can’t think of a good reason why I should start at age 50. But, at his behest, I tried them recently at a Cracker Barrel in Virginia, to see if somehow over the years my taste buds had forgotten about that time Little Meg tried them at Aunt Fanny’s Cabin in Georgia and, gagging and sputtering, dramatically spit them into a napkin. Turned out my taste buds hadn’t forgotten, and I didn’t spit them out because I’m a grown-up now, but I did make faces and he photographed me, amused at his Yankee girl’s reaction:
Meg tastes the greens
Meg tries to swallow the greens
It’s January, and everyone in the whole world is rededicating him- or herself to healthy eating, and so am I. I’ve modified my diet to cut out all sugar (which isn’t a stretch for me) and wheat flour (which is), reducing dairy, and avoiding processed foods. It’s Whole 30-ish, and it works for me.
One easy way to check all of my self-imposed dietary boxes is to eat a nice green salad with delicious vegetables and added protein. I find salad to be a lot of work to consume. You chew and you chew and you chew some more and even after all that chewing your plate is still more than half full, as if the salad somehow regenerates itself each time you remove a forkful. I usually get tired of salad before I get full of salad. It requires too much effort.
Nevertheless, today at lunchtime I set about filling my plate with some baby arugula I had rescued yesterday from Steve’s fridge. But then I noticed the date on the bag:
Something about me that kind of vexes Steve is my urge to purge his refrigerator of food that’s past its prime or its date. If the lettuce has started to liquefy, I know you’re not going to eat it, so I’m tossing it and I’m not asking for permission. Same with that mushy zucchini, and those leftovers you saved from a dinner three weeks ago. Run to the light on this. My threshold may be low, but in the name of food quality (and safety), I’ll take the criticism all day long.
Despite the date on the bag, the arugula looked ok, and I was really hungry. So I grabbed a handful and sorted through it with patience and precision. I noticed one small leaf that was starting to turn. I pulled it out. Same thing happened with the next couple of handfuls. After careful examination, I deemed these greens satisfactory for consumption and topped them with some grilled chicken and a couple of hard-boiled eggs and a generous shake of Greek dressing.
I was feeling proud of myself for not having automatically trashed the bag based on the date alone. I texted Steve:
We feel the same way about most vegetables, as it turns out.
I CAN HAVE ALL THE WILLPOWER in the world, but when presented with a freshly-baked chocolate croissant, I am powerless. They are my kryptonite. Low-carb blah-blah-blah-blah-blah GET IN MY BELLY. Right now.