As I soaped up in the shower this morning, I spied a large wart on the thumb of my left-hand. My mind careened through a cycle of doomy rumination: How could this happen only three days before my wedding? I haven’t had a wart in over 25 years! How fast does Compound W work? Is it too late to buy bridal gloves? How will Mr. Pinault put the ring on my finger if I’m wearing gloves?
Then, I realized the wart was actually a soap bubble. I’m losing it.
For the past week, I have been experiencing insatiable cravings for very specific junk food, though in practice I’ve been diligently sticking to my typical regime of avoiding anything that my great-great-Grandmother wouldn’t have recognized as food. For breakfast, I’ll eat toast with neufchatel while wistfully dreaming of Fruity Pebbles cereal. At noon, I’ll chop on salad, bread and hummus while wanting spaghetti with salt and butter (though my particular great-great-Grandmothers wouldn’t have recognized hummus as food, surely someone’s would have). I’ll snack on plums to subliminate a yearning for Doritos and Reeses Pieces. And at 8pm, I’ll tuck into a French peasant-style dinner followed by a cheese course, but I’m dying for something coated in deep-fried batter and sweet n’ sour sauce, followed by that Ben and Jerry’s ice cream with the chocolate-covered pretzels.
Today I submitted to this hunger for highly-processed foodstuff and went to a cafeteria-styled lunchplace in downtown Boston that caters to construction workers and diet-hazardous office workers. My co-worker has nicknamed it the Quantity Cafe, as in “quantity, not quality.” I was the only non-bike messenger customer in the place with a discernable neck. I eyed the gooey, bready pizza that is sold in 1/4 pie servings, but instead I went for the cheese lasanga.
(Lasagna! I can’t remember that last time I ate you. I used to love to make you, because you’re so customizable, and you yield bottomless leftovers that are easily packaged for lunch. But then I fell in love with a Frenchman whose Top Two culinary no-nos include leftovers and dishes that contains gratutious quantities of tasteless cheese, so I’ve had to say goodbye to you, to pizza, to cheesy veggie tacos, and hello to fondue, raclette, and gratin savoyard.)
I walked out of the Quantity Cafe with one $4 slice of lasagna the length of my forearm, which was actually cut into two slices to fit into the takeout container. I promptly threw away one half and ravished the other. Who knew slabs of ricotta and mozzerella pressed between over-cooked sheets of cheese-crusted noodles and nary a hint of tomato sauce could be so nourishing, in an entirely non-nutritive way? I felt calm for the first time in a week, maybe because my blood sugar crashed and I couldn’t muster the energy to even fret about how all these empty calories would go straight to the backs of my upper-arms.
