People say this about me: she doesn’t eat junk food. Those who see me binge, know that, for my late night crazies I eat many bowlfuls of raisin bran, Kashi seven-grain crackers, and finish things off with a hunk of organic swiss milk chocolate. Washed down with a glass of wine – usually from a bottle that I picked up because I was taken in by those silly fabricated cards that tell you it’s all about pears and green apples with a touch of anise, only by the time I uncork it, it’s near midnight and I can’t tell anise from an ass.
But people misjudge. They think I am one way and I am really off in another region altogether. Someone once said to me “you are so urban.” Sure. When I am not thinking of hiding for weeks on end in an old stone house in some forsaken village in southern France, with maybe two bakers, one bar and a restaurant as the principal sources of commercial activity within a twenty mile radius.
About junk food though. I want to be honest. It’s not all pretty down here.
Take yesterday. It started off maybe not exactly wholesome-like, but way more wholesome-like than the table next to ours, where people were ordering French toast with whipped cream and a side of sausages. My mere two pancakes felt organic and spa-like by comparison.
And lunch. Well, I don’t do lunch, so that eating a scone was within the range of the normal. But it was a huge piece of pastry, promising an uncomfortable flight back in my stretch jeans that had already reached their limit of spandex-flex before the day got under way. Still, I was not exactly ingesting crap. Just carb. So what. The French eat carbs, Poles eat sausage. Tell me who has the svelte reputation of the two.
But then things began to deteriorate.
I arrived at Hartford’s Bradley airport and there was nothing, NOTHING fresh and honest to eat there. At the one and only bar, I was told that the tender would be able to pop a hot dog into the microwave for me. Gross.
I opted for a large bag of pretzels.
On the Midwest flight I was handed a bag of Ritz Bitz with orange stuff called “cheese spread. “ I ate every one of them and washed it all down with a can of bloody mary mix. The attendant handed me two big chocolate chip cookies as a reward. I wanted to call him back and ask for two more, but I felt shy given that everyone else had only one.
My connecting flight from Milwaukee was delayed. Eating venues were closed at the airport. Except for the bar. With bag-lets of I-can’t-even-remember-what junk food.
My day. It didn't end there either. Approaching midnight, back at the loft, I felt I had to compensate. You know, balance things out with my regular fare. So I ate a huge hunk of organic Swiss milk chocolate. And opened a bottle of wine with green apple-anise overtones. Or something.