Since Sunday, I've been bedridden with a high temperature, sore throat, general chills and aches and night sweats and flu-ish-ness. Today, for the first time in days, I actually had a desire for solid food. Mind you, I have managed to eat mashed potatoes (from a box) and chicken noodle soup (from a can), but it would be an insult to root vegetables and poultry to call either of those items "food."
For those of you to whom I have not already preached, I here profess I am a unabashed devotee of a gentleman named Michael Pollan, author of "The Omnivore's Dilemma" and "In Defense of Food." In both of these gripping non-fictions, Mr. Pollan details the life of our dinner, from the ground where it originated to the substances with which it is cooked. If you thought "Fast-food Nation" had a profound effect on your eating habits, try the "Omnivore's Dilemma" chapter on corn (never mind the bit about feed lots... anyone can be terrifying while detailing what happens to chickens destined for styrofoam and plastic wrapping). These books are not about denying us humans the pleasure of a hearty meal, but about developing a new awareness of what our food actually is. So much of the Western diet revolves around processed food, chock full of corn and soy by-products with chemical preservatives and flavor additives tossed in. Canned chemical compounds do not a hearty stew make. From all Mr. Pollan's research, a maxim emerges: "Eat food. Not too much. Mostly vegetables." He goes on to list the basic rules for determining what is food. Primarily, if your great-grandmother would not recognize it as food, you shouldn't eat it. And if you cannot pronounce the ingredients listed on a label, don't put it in your mouth. Stay out of the middle aisles of the grocery store... stick to the periphery where fresh food lives.
All that said, I've been doing a lot of shopping at the farmer's market, and I convinced my sick and ailing self that the best meal to speed me along my path to recovery would be a salad. I rifled through the fridge and came up with half a tomato, an avocado, some feta cheese, a carrot, and a bit of turkey. Looking good. I went for the romaine, pulled off a couple leaves to give them a rinse, and found there, nestled among the greenery, a dead grasshopper. Oh disgusting. But after my initial squeal and horror, I decided I liked the notion of eating lettuce so un-pesticided that a grasshopper could nestle in it. Content with my environmentalism, I pulled off one last leaf. There lay two more grasshoppers. Big ugly things. These were not crickets; they were the size of my thumb. One healthy little bug is icky, three is another thing entirely. I have never washed lettuce so vigorously or with such inclination towards using soap to aid the process.
At last I put my salad together, and convinced myself I still wanted to eat it... in bed, the throne on which I have been riding out these uncomfortable days. I got my bottle of soda water from the fridge, went to my room, set the salad down on the wine law book on the bed, opened the soda water. The soda water exploded. One quarter of a 1.5L bottle of soda water sprayed with abandon, as if the grasshoppers had spent their final hours dancing salsa with the carbonated beverages in the dark of the refrigerator. When I finally got the cap closed and assessed the damage to my bedroom, I was looking at a splattered wall, wet sheets and comforter, a doused cell phone and alarm clock, a bookshelf of hosed books, a puddle on the floor, and one very very soggy sweatshirt. I had precious little humor for the situation, so as I cursed and set off, I gave one good kick of my wet slippers. And my food caught on the laptop power cord. Which dragged hastily over the bed, flipped up the cover of the law book, and tipped my fresh salad over into the sheets. I'll let you imagine for yourself the first words I chose to describe the moment.
Some days are just made for boxed mashed potatoes.
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