I’m a very unhappy person right now.
I’m a foodie living a very sad, lonely life these days. I’m a cook who isn’t cooking, a baker who isn’t baking, an eater who isn’t eating. I walk through the supermarket on Saturday mornings dreaming of salmon and fettuccine alfredo and lasagna and oatmeal cookies with chocolate chips.
I want a mushroom and spinach pizza and a quart of shrimp lo mein. To go, please.
I want a veggie shepherd’s pie and a fish pie and an apple one, too. With cinnamon ice cream on the side. And then maybe some Jelly Krimpets with a hot cup of tea.
One day. One day, soon, my mouth will heal and the taste buds will start working again. And breakfast will be a bowl of oatmeal with real maple syrup or a piece of homemade coffee cake and there won’t be a plastic bottle of “Blueberry and Pomegranate Ensure Protein Drink” to be found in my refrigerator. Which contains neither blueberries nor pomegranates, to no one’s surprise, I’m sure.
Or a glass of Carnation Instant Breakfast, which comes in 3 varieties of chocolate, strawberry and French vanilla. I may never drink a milkshake ever again.
I’d kill for a shrimp egg roll.
With duck sauce? Oh, yeah.
And you do not want to know what I’d do for a grilled cheese sandwich.
It’s obscene and probably illegal in several states.
Or ravioli. With vodka sauce and mushrooms and Parmesan cheese. Mmm.
Yeah, definitely illegal.
All I can say is, the day that I can eat real food again, you’d all better stay out of my way. Don’t even think about blocking the door to Wegman’s or the local pizzeria or it could get really ugly.
Better yet, come shopping with me. We’ll cook and have fun and eat ourselves silly. Wallow in cheese and butter and all kinds of caloric goodness.
Soon. I promise.