3.31.2006

Food for Thought

I usually try to bring my lunch to school to save money (and avoid waiting in long lines of hungry students), but I must admit I am lazy sometimes, and when I am, the crunchy chicken cheddar wrap provides salvation. I’m not even sure why people still frequent the Chik-Fil-A when the yummy sandwiches are two feet away. In one corner you get “chikin,” which may be a little more realistic looking than the thoroughly processed chicken-esque mush you might get at other fast food chains, but nevertheless dry, stringy and injected with 300% saline solution. The contender, on the other hand, is chopped breaded chicken on a garden bed of lettuce, tomatoes and cheese, smothered in ranch dressing and gently folded in a bright yellow tortilla blanket. It’s no contest.

Being particularly lazy today, I purchased a wrap and split it with the boy. As the cashier rang it up, I commented on the excellent quality of the dish: “man, this sandwich is awesome.”

“That the crunchy cheddar chicken wrap?” said the cashier, evidently used to ringing up this particular item. “Yeah, it’s almost perfect - except that it’s got tomatoes.”

“Zuh wha?” quoth the boy and I in unison.

“I hate tomatoes,” continued the cashier, who, by the way, was quite a bit overweight. Definitely husky. “They’re so gross. Only tomato I’ll eat is ketchup.”

Ah, a Reagan child, evidently. We understood, though horrified, and scurried off to finish our chicken wrap (which, by the way, had like one tiny tomato on it, and it wasn’t even ripe. Pfft).

Now I can kind of understand where people are coming from when they say they hate broccoli, for instance, or brussel sprouts. I’ve lived in the dorms and have experienced how these particularly tasty vegetables can be ruined utterly by inept cooks, either by nuking them in the microwave or smothering them in plasticine Velveeta (gross!). It’s sad, because I love these vegetables, no doubt in part because my mother is a terrific chef. But I understand.

But to hate the tomato? That makes as much sense to me as a carpeted skating rink, or a nine-legged spider. Tomatoes are delicious! They do not have a strong flavor, like cilantro or eggplant, but are juicy and fleshy and complement dishes nicely. Especially when fresh - sauce made from fresh tomatoes tastes worlds better than sauce made from canned tomatoes, to say nothing of the abominable high fructose corn syrup concoctions in the multitude of Ragu jars the boy has brought up from his parents’ house (his parents have a hoarding problem, and do not need these extra jars of inferior sauce. We’re planning on donating them to a soup kitchen or something). The best snack in the world, I’ve found, is a fresh tomato sprinkled with a little bit of salt. So tasty!

And then even later in the afternoon, I found out my roommate Paul hates avocados. Sweet, buttery, creamy green avocados. Of course Paul is a notorious picky eater that hates most other foods that I hold dear: quiche, mashed potatoes, potatoes in general, Tuna Helper (!), chicken pot pies, and I think I even remember him saying at one point that he didn’t much care for Vietnamese food, either. Ay, ¡dios mio! Perhaps this could be considered solid grounds for a lease-breaking.

To be fair, I do hate foods that other people probably find really mystifying. Texture is a big thing for me, and thus I cannot enjoy things like okra, even when fried (I still always notice the sliminess to the okra, however faint). Wasabi I also dislike, as well as all things horseradish, though I’ll put up with it when dabbled on sashimi or whatever. And no matter how many times I see Cajun cuisine featured on the Food Network (New Orleans cuisine, pre-Katrina, pops up in every top ten list on that channel, I swear), I will never touch a crayfish because I had to dissect them in middle school, and I’ll never forget the way the little formaldehyde-stinking crayfish parts smeared on the instruments when we tried to cut them. So if I’m ever in that area and get invited to a crawfish boil, I’ll have to pass. Sorry!

But the hate for tomatoes I’ll probably never understand. It’s not just that one overweight cashier guy, who should probably put down the ketchup bottle in favor of more tomatoes. I know lots of people who dislike tomatoes. They’ll dig through their salads and pull out the offending red slices, and if ever a hint of pulp or seed makes it past their particular lips, they’ll scrunch up their noses as if a skunk had sprayed them in the face. These people (well, some) are typically rational folks otherwise, but for what seems to me an irrational revulsion towards our pulpy, sometimes-a-fruit, sometime vegetable friends. Maybe it really can be traced to the Reagan administration’s infamous “ketchup is a vegetable, who needs nutritious meals in schools anyways” stance. How unfortunate.

3.30.2006

The Bug-birds, Prison Culinary School

I hadn’t had any memorable crazy dreams as of late, and then bam - two in a row. We had the window open, and this morning I was awakened by the garbage truck clanging around sometime near 6:00. I had trouble getting back to sleep afterwards because there was a bird perched right outside our window, who sounded like he was warning us of an imminent air-raid. My tiredness outweighed my annoyance, so sleep eventually won and I slipped right into a dream in which there were tiny birds and bugs, the size of marbles, embedded in my window screen. They were all chirping rather shrilly, even the bugs. To get rid of them, I took some chopsticks and gently pried out each of the little buggers - for though they apparently had strong lungs, they were really quite fragile and squishable - and placed them into a big plastic bag. I had the intent of setting them free outside, but I’d forgotten to empty the bag beforehand. When I opened the bag, the bug-birds had disappeared and all that remained were some old toy parts and legos.

The night before, I was really exhausted. The boy and I had made the mistake of drinking lots of tasty chai that night, which we’d made with assam (a nice potent black tea). When I finally fell asleep, I found myself being escorted into prison. As if it were mid-dream and not the start of one, I already had some plan in mind of how to escape. I was ushered into a room by two guards, and abandoned there to talk to the head jailer. I guess the head jailer was going to help me escape. My arms were tied with some rope, but I was able to drop onto the floor two ceramic chickens (which didn’t shatter in the process). I guess this was my bribe for the head jailer, but somehow I understood that these chickens were going to be instrumental in my escape. The head jailer collected them, thanked me, and ushered me into another room. I would escape! but I did have to stay awhile until I could be let free.

Then another prison guard untied me and showed me my transcript. He was enrolling me in prison school. I looked at the transcript and it showed my high school courses, but nothing about college. “But I’m in the honors program!” I protested. “Yeah, like that makes a bit of difference,” the guard sneered (quite an astute guard there). Simmering in the unfairness of having to go to regular prison school, I sulked until he pushed me into another room, which resembled a bare bones, concrete version of Emeril’s kitchen. Another prison guard (who, now that I think of it, did rather resemble Emeril), was instructing the audience (of prisoners) on how to grate fresh parmesan cheese. My alarm woke me up before we got to the marinara sauce lesson.