Another Food Post From The Fat Chick Who Never Finished Her Culinary Arts Training

And, wouldn’t you know, it’s like soup from a stone, I made it when we had “nothing to go with it.”

The above excerpt is from a May 2010 post wherein I detailed an argument with Voldemort regarding food. Looking back on it now, the food was not the reason for the argument. My unwillingness to always bend to his will was the reason for most of our arguments. But that’s not the reason I went looking for this post today.
I thought about this post while preparing my lunch this afternoon. Before I tell you about the lunch, though, I want to rewind to last night.

I got off of work and thought I was going to be shopping for some food my mother could feed my kiddos while they go out of town for two days to participate in what Luna calls a “cow wow”. The girls will be fully decked out in regalia and enjoy dancing and Native prayers. It’s a good experience for them culturally. Anyway, it turned out my helpful four year old had removed the shopping list from my purse and when I called my mother to ask for a verbal list, my mother was too distracted from the same sweet child’s rampaging fit over something or other to be able to provide me with any feedback so we resolved to do the shopping trip this morning instead (which we did).

Still at the store, hungry, tired, and knowing I would still need to feed me for the next few days even though the girls would be gone, I went looking for quick meal options that still worked with my new gallstone-friendly diet. I settled on preseasoned boneless, skinless chicken breasts. Those, I reasoned, could be a sandwich or part of a salad or served with a side of veggies or something.

After also selecting a brick of Vermont Extra Sharp Cheddar (okay, so very bad as are many dairy products for me but I love it and it’s okay in small portions). I steered the cart towards the produce section, knowing that fresh vegetables are always a better option than anything on the many other isles that I normally would have browsed.

In the produce section, I grabbed a head of green leaf lettuce (I wanted red but it all looked wilted), a bunch of parsley, some radishes, some sweet-on-the-vine mini-peppers, some leaks, and some snap peas. This was all random “oo that looks yummy” type stuff.

But this afternoon, hungry and not wanting to spend a lot of time on lunch, I combined all of the above and two poached eggs (except I don’t know if it counts as poaching when you crack them into a bowl and microwave them for two minutes…) into a bowl. I lightly drizzled (as opposed to dowsing) the whole concoction with Balsamic vinaigrette dressing and mmmmmmmmmmmm.

And this time, the world’s best salad wasn’t preceded by a fight with a disgruntled spouse, which probably added to the flavor. Salads are meant to be organic in their design. What I mean is, you don’t have to plot a salad. There’s no need to shovel specific ingredients into the bowl, and you don’t have to uproot yourself from your home and run to the store to get a forgotten item. There’s no pot to wash when you’re done, and the only dishes you will soil are your bowl and fork (and perhaps a knife).

Having run out of gardening puns, she decided to instead talk in third person and tell the readers to have a great day.


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2 thoughts on “Another Food Post From The Fat Chick Who Never Finished Her Culinary Arts Training

  1. When I was married to the sperm donor, I worked full time, had a baby in the oven and one on my hip, and single handedly ran out house from cleaning to paying bills and everything in between. Because the donor was an alcoholic, he contributed very little to either the running of the house hold or the financial means for running the household and child rearing. One night, around 3 AM, he came home drunk on his ass and woke me up, demanding that I prepare him a four course meal. We had leftovers that were fresh and he could have eaten fresh had he not chosen to hang out at the neighborhood bar until closing. And, this was previous to microwave ovens, so I got up and went to the kitchen and turned on the oven and proceeded to plan how much of the roast, potatoes, and carrots needed heated when he came through the kitchen and called me a fucking bitch to which I replied ignorant mother fucker and he slapped me and I kicked him and soon we were engaged in a full blown domestic squabble. I broke loose and he calmed down and I went back to cooking the leftovers with the blood oozing into my mouth from the cut on my lip to which I still have a scar. I bent down to get the pan out of the bottom of the stove when I saw it–the only can of the cheapest brand of pureed dog food that we had to feed our little Tippy, and yes I did. The next day, Tippy ate his roast, potatoes, and carrots in two bites. The sperm donor took to scratching behind his ear really quickly. I should have felt bad about feeding Tippy that left over roast, but I didn’t. Sperm donors are so fucking narcissistic.

  2. Apparently Google changed the comments section so that I could reply directly to your comment instead of simply commenting below…but the “reply” link is broken. /sighAnyway, way to go on your part…that reminds me of a similar story where a coworker at a former job was tired of another coworker stealing lunches from the company fridge. The solution was a lunch sack filled with delicious treats prepared from items available in the pet section. The trickster bragged all day about the lunch they’d prepared and…sure enough…found the thief eating the lunch in the break room. They informed the thief of the true origin of ingredients and the thief tried to get the trickster in trouble for attempting to poison the thief. It turns out, you’re allowed to pack whatever you please for your own lunch and a lunch thief cannot be upset if it isn’t palatable, lol.

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