30 Days of Blogging, Day 7: Eat This Blog

It's been a hard day in the world. I don't have a lot to write, and I'm not feeling particularly prolific today, so this is going to be a short and fluffy post. Hit me in the comments. You'll win a participation metal.

To preface this post, you'll need to watch the video at this link to completion (and for the love of God someone teach me how to embed a video from Twitter to Blogger).

Don't forget to speak loudly so I can hear you. I'll pay you in hard candies.

I'll wait.

All good?

Don't tell me we're good if we're not good.

Did you watch it?

Okay, I trust you.

Here we go:

DON'T. TOUCH. MY. FOOD.

Unless you have received a clear invitation from me to delicately taste a petit sampling of my delicious dish which I have agonized and second-guessed to unhealthy extremes since the waiter whisked away with my order--do not touch my food.

Unless you and I have entered into a verbal contract that we are meant to be sharing this dish--do not touch my food.

Unless I have had to flee due to tend to some kind of medical emergency or matter of national security and I didn't have the forethought to have my food packaged up to go--do not touch my food.

Do you think Liz would share her Mac and Cheetos?

What, am I some kind of greedy food monster? A selfish-Sally who never learned the concept of sharing? Maybe a little--but mostly it's due to a bizarre neurosis when it comes to my eating habits.

Now I'd place bets that there are a lot of folks who have odd little eating habits. In order to make this a safe space to share, I will share with you some of mine:

1) Did I mention I struggle with sharing?

2) I make a plan for how I will consume my food before I eat it. For example, if I have, say, a piece of chicken, mashed potatoes, and peas on my plate, there is a predetermined order in how this is going to go down. Scoop of potatoes, each bite gently pressed into the peas then enjoyed. Chicken, while delicious, is given attention last since it is not a delicious starch. The order is always: vegetables, starch, protein.

Look at this work of art, waiting to be consumed from right to left--the way God intended.

3) I eat one thing at a time. With the exception of dipping potatoes into peas, I enjoy one thing at a time, carving a path to the item I've decided to save for last. It was once pointed out to me by a close friend that this is freaking odd. I still struggle with that concept. Why not take your time and enjoy each component of your plate without cross-contaminating? This, I was told, was not normal eating behavior, and that the correct way to eat is to graze throughout the plate; a bite of this, a couple bites of that. That stressed me out; however, due to my epic admonishment I began to develop a bit of of a shame complex when eating in front of other people. Eating with friends requires a constant inner monologue that usually goes as follows--don't eat one thing at a time...okay you took a bite of this, take a break--don't go back to soon!!!--okay go to the chicken--you're doing a good job--do I look stressed out?--oh God, they know--I'm a freak!

Is it paranoia or narcissism? Why can't it be both?

4) I struggle with guilt every time I eat. I'm in a constant state of self-judging. As a person who has struggled with both my weight and bullying, I am always in a state of fear that people are judging me, even when I'm hungry. There's always a fear that if someone sees what I'm eating that they will observe and judge not only what I eat, but how I eat. Don't eat too fast--you'll look like a pig and they'll see you and then they'll know you're an actual pig--don't eat too much--don't order too rich food--be sure to leave something on your plate so you don't look greedy.

Time to move and change my name. Again.

My relationship with food is steeped in neurosis and in a constant state of evolving.

I'm figuring it out.

Your turn. What's your thing? Hit me in the comments.

30 Days of Blogging, Day 2: Mac and Cheetos and the Spiral of Shame

There must be a million reviews of Burger King's newest contribution to garbage food fusion cuisine, but none of those reviews will be as deeply steeped in shame as this one.

Where were you when I was pulling into the drive-thru?

Did you know that no matter what time you leave on a Friday before 4th of July weekend your drive home will be inexplicably long? Like, "I should consider stopping for sustenance" long? Just as I had this thought I was rolling by a Burger King.

This is where the shame spiral begins.

I was just going to get a soda.

Maybe a soda and some fries.

Maybe a soda, some fries, and a Junior Whopper.

Maybe a soda, scratch the fries, onion rings instead, and a Whopper with cheese and bacon, and...do they have milkshakes?

Maybe a chocolate milkshake, onion rings, a double Whopper with cheese and bacon and...OHMYGOD MAC AND CHEETOS?!?!

No caption needed. 

Scratch the milkshake, onion rings and Whopper: shit's about to get real here. 

I ordered one order of the Mac and Cheetos, which comes with 5 pieces. And a soda. And a Whopper, for a palette cleanser. 

I noticed a slight embarrassed tone as I said, "Mac and Cheetos"; as if when ordering them requires a certain amount of remorse or you won't get your food. 

I asked the gal at the window if she'd tried them. She nodded and half-shrugged with a look on her face that said, "They made me try it, and I'm not supposed to say it's terrible, but I also hate lying, so this is all I'm able to muster up without losing my job."

It was a drive-by Meh-ing

I couldn't wait to get home to try one, so I the pulled the box out as soon as I pulled way. 

I love that it comes in it's own little purse. You don't want it to touch anything like clothes, fabric, or skin.

It's not a product slogan, it's a warning.

At first glance, they look like the puffy variety of Cheetos, which took me back to many hazy-roomed nights in my early twenties waxing poetic of how much more delicious the puffy Cheetos are because of how good they feel with cotton mouth. Yes, that's a conversation I had. 

At second glance, they started to remind of the nuggets I scoop after Popeye every morning. I tried not to dwell on their cat-poop similarities too long, because I really wanted to try this crap.

Does it matter that product development at Burger King is run by cats?

They smell nothing like Cheetos, and more like Goldfish Crackers or Cheez-Its. When I bit into it, it was a bit stale, like it had been sitting under a heat lamp for quite some time. The mac and cheese on the inside was like (and probably actually was) Kraft Mac and Cheese.

Is this what I look like on the inside now?

Pretty salty, Kind of creamy. Kind of crunchy. Savory. Might be really good with beer--oh man. Oh no.

I wasn't supposed to like them. I was supposed to try them to be ironic in the incorrect sense of the word. They weren't supposed to be crunchy, creamy, salty little fried nuggets of pasta that I want all the time. 

Further down the shame spiral I go. 

Shut. Up.

Overall, they're fine. They're a shameful, yummy embarrassing to order and eat in public treat and it's a good thing there's only one Burger King in the Seattle metropolitan area. 

I'd go further into the pitfalls of eating fast food while I'm struggling with depression and trying to eat food that's better for my body, but why be a bummer about something that's, let's be honest, is kind of whimsical and delightful?

This bitch...