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Cuisine has been a rather “interesting” venture as of late.  With the focus turned to keeping healthy whilst controlling those pesky sugar grams, I’ve had to bid adieu to many of my favorite sins.  Some of the changes haven’t been too daunting, while others have proven a miserable exercise in gastronomy.

I have dreams of laying on a red velvet bed, all beautifully lit, me posed “just so”. In this dream, my naughty bits hidden by potatoes. I look heavenward in ecstasy as I’m rained upon by tender drops of white steamed rice.

“American Beauty…not a good thing served up along with the salad course. The results speak for themselves.

So what do I do to keep my taste buds content. Well, seeing as most things will either make me sick or worse, I’ve been “encouraged” to load up a different film reel.

In this scene, I’m running full tilt through the ruins of Berlin while an Allied fighter chases me down, firing brown rice bullets at this protagonist from its 50 mm cannons. I flee, seeking refuge of a bombed out ruin with an appropriately fetching piano, heavily laden with massive steaks and steaming bowls of rice and spuds.  I’m day-dreaming all this while choking down the Gobi Desert brand dry cous cous I must now eat to stay sated and healthy.

So why do I love this junk so much. And, an even better question, why do I hate the good stuff even more. Well, for a kid raised on everything white, it’s a method of ingestion I grew up on from the point of the bottle til present day. Rarely did anything mystical ever appear on our kitchen tables. If anything, the mystical held no interest for any of us concerned in my family. Rule of thumb; if you can’t pronounce it, you don’t cook it.

I don’t notice my butt getting any smaller. In fact, it’s now equipped with seats, a wide-screen and carpeting, and tonight’s film promises a sold out première. Well, I shouldn’t gripe. It does detract from the fact that my pendulous breasts are just so wrong.

I’ve parked Uncle Ben and Aunt Jemima under a bridge so I won’t see them no’ mo! I’ve removed Pepperidge Farm from my tourist map, and I’ve ceased playing my magical flute with Libby.

So what’s left. Well, grass is a good source of vitamin “b”leccch. Meatless soups with no salt or discernible taste to speak of are the very core of my new menu. And things that birds and squirrels eat are my last bastion of snack time.


Help me!

Why can’t I enjoy something slathered in gravy, like a couple of fried pigs with a baked chicken for my vegetable.

Aaah, well there is no point in bitching. It’s that or a life of continuous trips to the ER.

So I’ve learned to love Diet Coke. I’ve learned to loathe Ice Cream. I’ve even learned to tolerate the smell of cooking fish in my house. But I’m still running on empty with that damned rice.

You just can’t make brown turn white. Michael Jackson is proof positive of that.

So how do you make this crunchy abomination stewing away on my stove top somewhat palatable. I mean, it’s not exactly something you can dress up with Heinz.  I’ve tried cooking an egg into it. It just made it crunchier. I’ve boiled soup into it. It just made me want that salt shaker all the more. I’ve even tried boiling meat and vegetables into it. It made me want to force feed a dietician to a wolverine, just because.

Well, I’m resolved to a tasteless and dull life of dining. No more burgers and fries. No more “chinese” buffet. It’s straight to the e coli infected bean sprouts for me. Perhaps I could maybe get a date with that hunk, good ol’ Jolly Green? I’m short enough to pull it off, and I look fabbo in leaves.

Well, Din Din’s a callin’, and tonight it’s daffodil bulbs and pine needles steamed with a touch of Mrs Dash.