Generally speaking, I don’t long for food. Eating, for the most part, has mostly been a means of getting fuel into my talking hole so that I won’t die. I’m not one to savor every bite and wax poetic on the amazing taste sensations I am experiencing. I will not, pull a Meg Ryan over a turkey sandwich with the mayo on the side.
I do, however, sporadically get weird food cravings. If I didn’t know better, I would think I might be pregnant. I don’t think that’s possible, though, because we used the rhythm method. I mean, some of my girlfriends say that that isn’t good enough, but Jim says it just doesn’t feel good when he wears a…you know, I’m so embarrassed to say it… a prophylactic. I want to make him happy, what do I do???
One craving I get from time to time is KFC (sorry Pam). I can’t remember what comedian it was that said something about how the Colonel puts crack in the extra crispy spices, but they were right. Sometimes, I just have to have a couple of wings.
Aside: Can we just stop all this “KFC” nonsense? Everybody knows it’s Kentucky Fried Chicken. You’re fooling no one. I don’t care if Kentucky would try to sue you, Colonel; stick with your original vision. “KFC” sounds like a back-up dancer.
Anyway, I can go days, weeks, months without even a thought, but then it will suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks: I gotta have the Colonel
(which, by the way, isn’t even half as homo-erotic it sounds during this, the days after Brokeback Mountain [also known as A.D.-BBM])
When the urge strikes, there is little that can keep me away… though I do miss the little cardboard boxes everything used to come in. What’s up with the Boston Market-esque plastic?
At any rate, the above isn’t really a weird craving. I have a feeling we all hanker for The Extra Crispy from time to time. Something odder, though, is what I indulged in tonight:
More specifically a tin of sardines in mustard sauce. Atop Triscuits. With water.
First of all, a ‘tin of sardines’ is the only thing I can think of in which I have ever used the partial phrase: ‘A tin of *blank*‘. Who says, ‘A tin of *blank*‘? Nobody, that’s who; except possibly the British when referring to biscuits… and by extension then, possibly Madonna as well. Only the British and Madonna ever say, ‘A tin of *blank*‘, except for me when referring to tins of sardines.
And you. You will also say, “Why I am I eating this fucking disgusting tin of sardines?” should you ever happen upon the chance to do so.
Secondly, who in the hell eats sardines (except the Scottish)? Again, nobody. Even so, the market gamely tries to sell them. And they’re not hard to find, either. There are dozens of varieties, all stacked up neatly in their tins, next to the cans of tuna. There are so many, in fact, that you have to spend literal minutes deciding between them, as if to say, “Hmmm, I wonder which tin of vile disgusting mess I’d like to shove into my pie-hole today?”
Did I mention that I love it? I didn’t did I? I totally love the sardines… and I don’t understand why. I question myself through the entire process:
“Why am I pulling a tin of sardines out of my pantry?”
“Hell, why do I even have a tin of sardines in the first place?”
“Why am I opening this?! Why am I pulling back this oversized pop-top?”
“Gah! I’m not really going to eat that am I? Look at the scales! Look at their headless bodies!”
“I’m eating it. I’m eating it. Why am I eating it?”
It’s weird, and I fear what may come next.
I’d like to take this opportunity to claim FIRST in composing a post referencing both Pamela Anderson and sardines. I think I’m pretty safe on that assumption.