Regular readers will recall that I spent the time between Christmas and April this year eating a diet of brown rice and bits of cardboard, due to a worsening relationship with my gallbladder.
Well, now my gallbladder is gone, and it’s just me and the limitless universe of food left to our own devices.
While I was in the heart of the cardboard food journey, I came to the understanding with myself that it would probably be a good idea to eat with an eye to health once all was settled. At the same time, I resolved I wouldn’t become a prisoner to this notion.
I did decide, however, that if I was going to eat foods not generally considered “healthy,” I was at least going to abandon the pointless harm of unhealthy food that offered no other worldly pleasures.
For example, over the past decade I’ve probably eaten hundreds of pounds of poorly prepared, bland-tasting, generally unappetizing french fries. There have been one or two cases where I’ve had truly great french fries that have enlivened me; the rest were simply deep-fried glop that I ate mostly because they were included with other bits of glop on the menu.
Same situation with chocolate: once you’ve tasted what chocolate can be, the Kit Kats, Mars bars and the rest taste like waxy gunk, and offer little or no satisfaction more than 30 seconds after eating (if even that).
My problem now is that I live in a region where eating out, at least in a snacky spur of the moment kind of way, usually means that glop and gunk are about all that’s on the menu.
I like to snack. If I had my way, I’d give up three square meals a day, and become a permanent Pintxosologist.
Is it wrong to seek out new places to live because of the snacks on offer?