Hello darkness my old friend. I’ve come to snack with you again. These are the lyrics to the yet-to-be-produced Weird Al parody song being played at an eleven in my head as I blow the dust off my kitchen scale. A few weeks have passed since that dark, fateful day when the low battery icon on my proudly-made-in-China Taylor 3835 Kitchen Scale began to flash, I glanced around the kitchen to see if anyone was watching, and slowly and deliberately buried the scale in the mass grave of random household junk that is the left-hand drawer on my kitchen island. I can still hear the scale gasping for joules as I covered it with a ziplock bag of rubber bands, four copies of the same thai food take-out menu, and the owner’s manual to something I no longer own. What could lead me to such a depraved and senseless act of scale-slaughter? Was it the countless meals of chicken, broccoli slaw, mayonnaise, mustard, and Chex Mix, all carefully measured in consistent portions, that had slowly driven me to the brink of insanity? Or perhaps it was the PTSD (Post Traumatic Scale Disorder) I experienced every time I went out to eat with Wife and had no way of knowing how many calories was in that f***ing delicious duck confit panini. Whatever it was, it caused me to hit my breaking point, and, unfortunately, my kitchen scale payed the iron price. Well, actually, it was more like the protein, carbohydrate, and fat price, but I don’t want to be yet another nerdtritionist who lectures internet strangers on the importance of hitting macros. Not to worry—this sordid tale has a happy ending. I gained ten pounds, and the scale, blessed with a fresh battery, rose like a phoenix from the ashes. Now, who wants exactly one serving of Chex Mix?
Much Ado About Meat
I’m back. Where did I go? You mean besides the fantasy world run entirely by hedgehogs that exists in my brain? Well, it wasn’t a physical place, but rather a more abstract state of being. You see, for the past year and half or so, I haven’t eaten meat of any kind. During this time my diet has consisted entirely of grains, vegetables, fish and ice cream. Lots and lots of ice cream. Technically, this means I was a pescatarian. And because I discovered that I missed eating cheeseburgers almost as much as I hate referring to myself as a pescatarian, which sounds like a futuristic race of mermen, I decided to fall off the meat wagon this past weekend and insert various cuts of animal protein smothered in melted cheese and franch (Frank’s Red Hot mixed with Ranch Dressing) into my gaping maw. The funniest/most disturbing part is the way friends and coworkers have been asking me how I feel, as if they are acknowledging that eating meat is a mild form of bodily poison. Frankly, I don’t care. I’m too busy embracing my inner cave-man by gnawing on shanks to worry about that sort of high-minded dietary fluffery. However, I must confess that I’m trying to contain my glee and slowly incorporate myself back into the wonderful world of meat by indulging on weekends only. In the meantime, I’ll go back to imagining myself taking orders from an executive hedgehog that drives a Lamborghini.