Skunked again

I was quite hungry, indeed. I hadn’t eaten since dinner last night, which consisted of two unaccompanied hot dogs. So, about fifteen minutes ago I decided that I would overcome my laziness and general apathy toward actually making something to eat and make a lousy sandwich out of the (still) leftover Christmas ham.

I headed for the bread box and, upon arrival it seemed that the Gods of good sandwich fortune were smiling down upon me because, much to my surprise, there was bread left over from my long winter break. As luck had it, I took the last two slices and went on my way.

Then, I decided that I needed a condiment of some sort. Rather than go through the trouble of pulling a knife out of the drawer and yanking the mayonnaise from the inside door of the refrigerator, I opted for the item in the fridge that necessitated the least work on my part, the often neglected French’s yellow mustard. As I picked it up, though, I knew it was on its last leg, headed to that picnic basket in the dim yellow condiment sky. Though it took a little elbow grease, I was able to successfully coat both slices of my bread, finishing just as the noble little bottle of tangy goodness kicked the bucket. With my head held high, I continued to make the sandwich with the last remnants of Christmastide cuisine.

Now then, I found a couple slices of cheese – the only item excessively bountiful in the Peterson kitchen – and slapped them onto the sandwich. So far, the art of sandwich making was continuing swimmingly. Or so I thought.

I had not taken into account that Christmas was a full 10 days ago. As such, the Honeybaked Ham which sat in the dark recesses of its chilly refrigerated coffin was in the poorest of shape, and had begun to grow crystals of some sort. I was heartbroken.

Still, though, that was the best Swiss cheese and mustard sandwich I’ve ever eaten.

When the moon hits your eye

Why is it that cold pizza is so much better than the warm stuff? It’s the same pizza; nothing has been added or taken away from the pie.

I imagine it could be because you don’t have to deal with the hot pizza predicament. You know: when the pizza is just served and is so hot that the mouth naturally puckers and you scour the tabletop for a beverage to calm the raging inferno within your pallet. With a few hours of refrigerating time under the proverbial pepperoni belt, such situations are successfully evaded and the pizza can be enjoyed with no fear of burnination.

Some may say that cold pizza is the nuts because of the solidifying of the cheese. Sure, it sucks when you’re faced with the problem of stretchy, warm cheese that continually slips off of the slice. So perhaps by slowing down some molecular, gooey movement in the chilly recesses of the fridge, the problem is avoided, and the avoidance of such a problem serves as another tally in the plus column of cold pizza’s plus and delta chart.

But while these aforementioned reasons are quintessential in considering cold pizza’s dominance over its warmer counterpart, there is one reason that trumps them all. I don’t have to do any work to eat cold pizza, whereas obtaining a piping hot pie would necessitate ample work on my part. I’d have to find a place to get some pizza, order it, wait for it, eat it, and pay for it. Just walking to the icebox and yanking out a slice thats been chilling for some time, however, calls for just a few steps in the right direction and a quick yank of the arm.

All in all, I’m pretty sure that it’s the lack of work necessary to obtain a piece of cold pizza that makes eating it so appealing. Because, after all, everything tastes better if it’s free.

Tubular, dude

People give hot dogs a bad rap. I mean, they can’t help what they are; tubes of assorted meaty goodness are by their nature unable to alter their state of being.

Sure, they’re made of a bunch of different animals and wrapped into a tubular shape with some sort of edible and fleshy material. And some people may find fault in this scheme. Not I, however. I view the hot dog as one of God’s gifts to man: an unrelenting source of nourishment and disposal in one compact, easy to handle package of delight.

In thinking about it, the hot dog is actually an efficient form of disposal. What should we do with excess animal parts? If not pack them into commercially marketed tubes for public consumption, what other alternative is there? If anything, the Oscar Meyers and Hebrew Nationals of the world are saving the world from the sticky situation of not having anywhere to put its excess cow tongues.

Plus, hot dogs are really, really tasty. I feel bad for the two poor birds that were hit by the deli folk’s rock.

Two Quart Quandry

My priorities have recently become tragically skewed in a dilemma comprised of two entangling devotions.

Today, the lovely Ms. Lauren Parker instant messaged me with the oh-so-wonderful news that she had her first glass of eggnog of the new autumn season. Particularly excited about the fact that T.G. Lee has bestowed upon all of society the sweet nectar that is nog, I rushed to Publix to pay for my $3.69 half gallon jug of the essence of God.

But then I began to think as I stepped onto the scale in the store. Since summer, I lost 20 pounds. And because eggnog is particularly fattening and I love it, I reached this inevitable conflict of interests: do I disregard my outward appearance for the sake of the tastiness of the nog or do I watch my weight and drift daily through life depriving myself of my one true love of the winter months?

Oh, woe is me.

Buen provecho

School is in full swing, and as such I haven’t been able to update much during the week. School has consumed me and there’s nothing I can do to combat that but go every day and make the best from a situation in which I would prefer not to be in.

For example, at lunch on Tuesdays and Thursdays, the a la carte line in the lunchroom sells steak burgers. These aren’t your normal hamburger – oh no. They are twice the size and, though they cost a whopping $2.75, I’m willing to throw out the extra buck for superior processed “meat” topped with melted “cheese.”

The new steak burgers (or so they call them; I don’t see any steak in there) have made me such a happy man that I can make it through the week virtually unscathed. Such a fact just goes to show that food makes life worth living.

Either that or it just sustains us until we inevitably die. Either way.

Moscow girls make me sing and shout

Today at school, there were a couple of foreign exchange students from Russia. After meeting them and welcoming them to our humble little country, I urged them to go eat some high quality American cuisine.

And what do they do? They go eat cookies for lunch; cookies that could just as easily been eaten in Kaliningrad. I find that to be a highly innutritious and un-American lunch choice. It’s not everywhere you can get overpriced turkey tetrazini with a fifty cent dinner roll.

But I forgive them for two reasons. First, this is a strange, new land to them. Second, they were a couple of lovely ladies. And everyone knows there is no lovelier lady folk than can be found in Russia and all of her U.S.S.R. buddies from way back when.

Therefore, they are absolved so long as I have my Eastern European eye candy.

Unlisted Numbers

And now, I present to the masses a list of unrelated thoughts to compensate for my week of debloggification:

1. Sometimes I forget to turn the knob before walking through doors. I understand that without such a crucial action, the whole process is doomed; I just have other things on my mind when walking through doors. I can only assume it’s because I like to think about what I will do when I get to the other side of the door and force the inner monologue of actually getting out to the back burner of my mind.

2. Frozen pizza is better than hot pizza. I think that when I’m old and living in a Miamian condominium, I’ll just order an extra large pie and refrigerate it for lunch every day of the ensuing week. Then I can save my money for more important things, like my senior’s coffee at McDonald’s for 65 cents.

3. I should probably start my Higher Level History paper comparing and contrasting the Mexican Independence Movement and the Haitian Revolution. Or perhaps I could hire a Mexican to write it for me. Either that or a Haitian. If they cooperated, I’d have an outstandingly accurate paper – what better primary source than an immigrant who’s Great Grandpappy Randolfo actually participated in the bloodshed? Either way, it has to be in Burton’s hand in a little over two weeks.

4. Whoever decided to paint the school while classes are in session should be severely punished. I’ve seen many a damsel in distress with paint on her because of unmarked wet paint. It’s like a severely misapplied case of the Scarlet Letter. Except it’s paint, not scarlet. And more of a blob of blue than a letter. And to receive this letter, you don’t have to be as kinky. On second thought, it’s nothing like the Scarlet Letter.

5. I met these two girls in the courtyard during lunch the other day. From afar, I spotted one of them accidentally drop some spare change. So I sprung into action and dashed the forty feet to their midst and dove to pick up the coins for them, as they had their hands full and were wearing garb that would not be flattering to bend over in. I retrieved the three coins and gave them to one of the young ladies saying, “Here’s your sixty cents,” and ran away again, out of sight. That’s the last I’ve seen of them.

6. Potato turbate would be more appetizing if they changed the name. No one wants to eat turbate.

That's a spicy meat-a-ball!

I know that many folks are finicky about what they eat. You could classify me like this too, but I try to keep an open mind about what goes into my mouth; I’ll try anything once.

Way back when we were wee tots, most of our parents fed us things like Spaghettios. And now I’m giving the well-earned props to Mr. Chef Boyardee.

Today I discovered that euphoria can be achieved with a microwave. Today I discovered that heaven really is on earth. Today I discovered Mini Bites Mini Ravioli with Mini Meatballs.

So here’s to you, Mr. Messiah of the Microwave, and thank you for the delicious distraction from my mundane life.

Taco Bell

Today, myself being the healthy young lad I am, I walked up to the local Taco Bell for lunch. It’s not a long walk, three blocks and across Gulf-to-Bay Boulevard.

I started off at about 3:10, and made it there at about 3:20, maybe later. Anyway, I walked into the store and there wasn’t anyone at the register. No problem, I just stood there and waited. And waited. And waited.

I’m not a very vocal fellow, so I didn’t pipe up so that Maria in the back could notice me. This didn’t stop another customer who had already sat down with his food.

“Service to front!”

I thought this cry to be funny, so I chuckled. I wouldn’t be chuckling for long.

I made my order: A combo number 7, containing a chicken or steak quesadilla and a taco. I put some parameters on my meal, demanding the quesadilla be of the chicken variety and my taco be soft and lacking lettuce. Lettuce is gross.

No problem – I stated my case, had a $5.00 bill in my hand, and the transaction was going smoothly. That is, of course, until she did the unthinkable.

After I hand her my money, she dispenses 83 cents change, I say, “Thank you much,” and she says, “Sure, hun.”

I’ve never been particularly fond of pet names, but I’ve put up with them. Until now. The superfluous “hun” that little Maria entered into our business transaction wasn’t the sort of “hun” that a female says to a male. The way she presented it, she used the “hun” that one uses when talking to a six year old. A condescending, patronizing pet name. Granted, I’m short. Granted, I was walking up to the Bell in 90 degree heat. Granted, I may have looked helpless. I was not, however, helpless enough to warrant a name such as this.

And another thing. You do not introduce personal conversation into the transaction. Your job is to sell me tacos. My job is to eat them. Any other discussion or odd names takes from the professionalism of the two-bit operation you call Taco Bell.

A Late One

This past week I went with my youth group to tour colleges around America’s eastern states. Soon into the trip, we found ourselves at Transylvania University in Lexington, Kentucky. Those kind folks let us eat in their cafeteria, and yes: it was typical college food.

Or so I thought, until I stepped up to the soda fountain. Coke? No. Sprite? No. But then, like a glimmering beacon in the Midwestern sky that illuminated my meal and, inevitably, my life, shone the logo of a soft drink called Ale-8-1. Now, a plain white background with a red ALE81 on the back would normally dissuade me from partaking in such a beverage, but just before I stepped away from the fountain to fill up my cup with another cola, I saw the subtitle on the label for Ale-8-1: “Kentucky’s Soft Drink.”

“Kentucky’s soft drink?! A whole state of refined citizens such as the loyal Kentuckians can’t be wrong!”

So with that, a beautiful relationship began. Before the end of the meal consisting of one grilled cheese sandwich and an entire plate full of creamed corn, I had downed 4 glasses of the most glorious ale and, like a child at the end of Frosty the Snowman where Frosty melts, lowered my head into a weep knowing that I would never see my beloved Ale-8-1 again – it being Kentucky’s Soft Drink and all. I doubt Kentucky would want to share such a blessing with dirty old Florida.

As I walked out of the college and to the van which was about to depart for Nashville, Tennessee, I saw it. Just like the beacon that shone so brightly in the soft drinks line minutes before, the machine emitted sort of a glow; not a light that would catch the normal person by surprise, but a certain difference was noticeable between the Ale-8-1 and the other dim and uninviting machines. Sure, it looked like it was 40 years old. Sure, most of the buttons didn’t work. And sure, 60 cents is an odd price for a soda. But there it stood, coaxing the dimes from my pocket and filling my stomach with liquid sunshine.

I bought two cans that day, and all the convenience stores around were closed. Two cans were all I could afford, and one actually made it home with me tonight. It stood in the fridge and, as it became cold, I’m pretty sure I could hear faint cries from the insulated realm of frigid consumables crying for the mercy of this newcomer: “Don’t hurt me, Ale-8-1! We do respect you, master! You are our king!” Never heard another beverage cry for mercy? Believe me, the orange juice can act like a little schoolgirl.

As I sit back and drink it now, I can’t tell why I like it. It’s sort of like ginger ale, but without the ginger. A watered down cream soda and a less-carbonated Sprite, so to speak.

It could be the fact that there is a mere 37mg of caffeine within it’s delightful splendor. But I’ve never really been a stickler for health content; that must not be it.

Maybe it’s the name. Sure, “Ale Eighty-one,” You say. And that’s what I thought until I saw the vending machine. The soda fountain read Ale81, but the machine read Ale-8-One. So, for about two days I supposed it to be pronounced “Ale Eight One.” Until, of course I read upon the can that I purchased for sixty cents, “A late one.” You would think that a person such as I, one who can spot a lousy pun from a mile away, would be able to decipher such a name in a speedier time than that. Nevertheless, it is indeed “a late one,” a name that boggles my mind further and increases my love for the beverage.

I still don’t know what it’s all about. Nor do I care. As I sit here and drink the last of the perfection that was successfully canned back in Elizabethtown, Kentucky, I can’t help but mourn the fact that unless I obtain a credit card and order some from the internet or move to beautiful Appalachia, I will never again taste the glory that has grazed my taste buds for the past week.

I salute you, Ale-8-1.