9/3/2004 - Food

"Hey, Jay, try this!"
"Ummm... what is that?"
"Shredded horse intestines, mixed with tartar sauce, spread on asparagus pickle crackers!"
"No thanks."
"Come on! Try it!"
"I'd rather not."
At this point, the assailant becomes irate. I have even been called anorexic (I'm 6', 160 pounds - lean, but not anorexic). This has happened to me hundreds of times, seriously. I'm ashamed to admit that there have even been times that I eat whatever crap I am offered just to avoid the situation...
"Hey, Jay! Try this!"
Chewing. "Hmmm... what is it?"
"Bone marrow!"

I have no lust for food. Not one bit. I eat because I have to eat to survive. I don't sit and look forward to meals, fantasizing about what delicacy might grace my palate. I don't care. I really just don't care.

Since there is no real interest in food, I have no motivation to blend complex flavors into new culinary adventures. I like steak. Smother my steak in something Frenchy and flitty, and I get upset. Take a perfectly good filet and wrap it in bacon (!), and I'm bewildered. You put any kind of fungus sauce on anything of mine, and I'm downright livid.

I've been nice to all of you people who take perfectly good food, shred it, mix it with some ridiculous sauce and minced green onions, dip celery into it, then say "That was delicious!" I've put up with your weirdness for too long, and I'm tired of it.

Here's my solution. I will eat the freakish concoctions, and I will immediately upchuck and die. There. Fine. I ate your mess, and I died.