I recently worked in St. George for a few days. I stayed with my colleague and friend who owns a modest little home down there:
She is a nice woman, but her Diet Coke was expired. Do you know what expired Diet Coke tastes like? Formaldehyde. Not that I ever drank formaldehyde, but some things you just know—like Pepsi tastes like toilet bowl cleaner. Or at least what I would imagine toilet bowl cleaner to taste like if I were to indulge.
I brought my own Diet Coke this trip, so my friend sought to torture me another way. Sunday before I left home, my family and I had a nice dinner consisting of:
A very good dinner. Then on Monday, my friend cooked dinner for me. She made:
She is a nice person—a saint, really. But then on Tuesday:
Warmed up roasted potatoes
I am trying to be a polite house guest, but when I came home Wednesday, her halo became a little more tarnished. She cooked:
Fried, warmed-up roasted potatoes
It’s not that I’m picky. Okay, I am picky, but enough is enough. Especially when I received the following letter in my email. It went like this:
Dear Ms. Ferran,
We are in possession of your food diary for the past four evenings and would like to file a formal protest.
How many of our kindred dead do you plan on eating?
Have you no imagination? What happened to the chocoholic deep within you? Get a grip, get some chocolate and go pig out. Away from us.
We will seek a restraining order if necessary.
Mr. Potato Head, Junior Asparagus and those cows that paint the signs for Chik-Fil-A.
I didn’t even know cows and vegetables could type, let alone have internet access. I am a little concerned.
Thankfully, I was rescued on Thursday with a dinner of pulled pork, a cinnamon yam, and chocolate pie I saved for Friday morning’s breakfast.
German chocolate pie, washed down with Diet Coke. Ahhhh, the burn.
I don't know when I can ever go back there. Maybe next year, when the nightmares fade...