More and more I get the feeling that there is food I just… shouldn’t be eating.
I know I’ve been saying it forever, but it’s taking time for it to be really mashed into my brain. Early on in our Austin adventure, Marty and I ate at Panda Express in the mall. It was really lame. I mean, it was fast Chinese food. It was fast mall Chinese food. Who even knows what was in it. It was gross.
Today we ate at a place called Wiki Wiki Teriyaki downtown, not too far from Stars In Your Eyes, where I had my optometry appointment this afternoon. Marty liked it. But I thought it was gross. And I suppose it was fast food. It wasn’t really fast, but it was pretty fast. We’re seeing a theme here, right?
More and more I am unsatisfied with putting food in my body when I don’t know what went into it. Some places seem all right—if fresh ingredient pizza places are adding ickies, they sure have me snowed. Sometimes I convince myself that because everybody else is eating it, I shouldn’t have such an issue, and so I eat it anyway, whatever it is. But then I start feeling a little crappy, or a lot crappy. And it doesn’t end up being worth it at all.
This evening I broke out the garbanzo beans and, tahini or not, started filling up the blender. The beans were canned. There’s probably a better way, but it wasn’t too bad on my scale of things that are eh. Marty smooshed some garlic cloves and chopped red pepper and I found the olive oil and the salt. And we put it all in and he squeezied a lemon and vrrrrrrrm blend blend blend!
On the plate with gorgeous 41st Street grapes and globs of goat cheese it was the most amazing thing I’d ever eaten. So why can’t fast food be like that? I don’t even care if it’s fast. I just want to know what’s in it… and I want those things to be good. Not teh suck.
This has to make sense to someone other than me.
And in the meantime, I’ve had an incredible dinner. We didn’t even bother with the mahi mahi or snapper we bought, that hummus was so damn good. They can wait for another night. Top it off with one glass of Schmitt Sohne and I feel perfect. When was the last time I felt perfect after a delicious meal of fast food?
How about never?
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