Food for Thought

I love food.  I think if I were to have a superpower, it'd have to be one that comes with a hyper-drive metabolism, allowing me to eat constantly without needing an adjustable waistband on my underoos.  Until then, the angel and devil on my shoulders will have to continue the debate on whether or not now is the best time to see if the last Boston Creme that I squirreled away in the refrigerator has been discovered.


Working from home, creates some challenges in the food department.  There's no defined 'meal time' since my schedule is primarily dictated by my workload, but heavily influenced by just how stinky the diaper in closest proximity.  Because of this, I've fallen into the habit of 'snacking.'  Whether it's to go to the bathroom, or help get the kids in the car I have to pass through the kitchen.  I don't think there's a red-blooded American man who can pass by a refrigerator without opening it up.  To this day, more than 15 years after moving out of my parents' house, I still feel a compulsion to raid the fridge whenever I'm there.  It must be a Y chromosome thing.  On occasion, my snacking is actually hunger driven.  Mind you, I've most likely been up since pretty early in the morning, and my breakfast probably consisted of a Special K breakfast bar and a cup of coffee.  I know, I know.  Not exactly the breakfast of champions for someone claiming to love food.  See, the problem is that by the time the 3 amigos have put me through their morning paces, I've probably haven't had enough time to figure out what to eat, much less make it or eat it.  So I grab something easy that I can eat on the go, knowing that I'll probably end up powering down the leftovers of whatever it is I might make the kids for breakfast.  Many days, it's the previously mentioned defrosted Eggo.  You couldn't pay me to eat one of those.  Flash-backs of a summer in the swamps of Quantico, training with the Marine Corps, eating soggy Eggo's and cold, powdered eggs while wondering just how long it takes for jungle rot to clear up,  have given me a slight aversion to them.  Of course, on the days one of the little locusts decides that he isn't really hungry and leaves the waffle on the table, I'm not above sticking that bad-boy in the toaster (the waffle, not the kid), crisping it up, and adding a generous portion of peanut butter and Aunt Jemima.  (No.  The combination of peanut butter and maple syrup on waffles is in fact NOT gross.  It is one of the ambrosia-like combinations placed on this earth to remind us that there IS a benevolent higher power who loves us.)

Thankfully, I've accepted my snacking habit as one that may not be treatable but is at the very least controllable.  It helps when I can go grocery shopping and peruse the aisles to decide which things I can see myself going for when I get hit by the "Oh God, I can't sit here and read another personnel report" desire to get up and wander through the kitchen.  I've already passed the Almond Joy on the counter three times this morning and resisted the temptation to supplement my breakfast with it.  (The chocolate cupcake, however, was not so lucky.)  I try to make relatively healthy choices, at least when buying the snacks, but I'm not so delusional to think that if I buy nothing but celery sticks and apples (both also awesome with peanut butter) that I'll have no choice but to eat them.  In reality, I'll most likely stare at them during my half dozen or so trips to the fridge where I wonder why there isn't anything in there I'm interested in eating then give up, shut the fridge, open the freezer and head back to the computer with a hand full of chocolate chips.  (Yes, keep them in the freezer, they're better that way.)

Like most people with a habit they can't kick, I have an enabler.  My two year old has few things in life that bring him more joy than to eat goldfish crackers.  There is no time of day too early or late, no life event so scary or depressing that a goldfish cracker cannot make all right with the world.   The goldfish, sometimes referred to as 'fishies,' are always carried in some sort of cup that causes them to rattle around in a distinct way when five little fingers are groping for the perfect one.  No need to tie a bell around this kid's neck, I'm always aware of where he's located in the house by how the sound of goldfish in a plastic cup resonates through the rooms.  In his innocent way, he'll meander into my office, staring into his cup, so engrossed in his good fortune that he'll, of course, not realize I'm there. 
Him - "Oh.  Hi Daddy!  Look, Fishies!" 
Me - "Oooh, you have fishies?"
Him - "No.  Goldfish."
Me - "Oh, I'm sorry, I meant Goldfish."
Him - "Yeah.  Look!  Nemo!"
At this point, he'll grab one of the crackers and hold it up for me to acknowledge that this perfect morsel is orange and fish-shaped and greatly resembles one of his favorite movie characters.
Me - "Cool.  It looks like Nemo."
Him, happily - "Yeah!"  Then, as if realizing what fate is in store for his tiny friend, he drops his head, sighs, and with the briefest of pauses, consumes helpless cracker.
Then, to make him feel better (not a selfish thought in my head of course) I'll ask him if I can have one.  This request is always pondered most seriously. Then, inevitably he'll decide that sharing is a good thing, select just the right cracker (usually one missing a tail fin (how'd THAT get in there?)) and hold it out for me to eat.  This is always done with a grin, though I'm not sure if it's because he likes to share or because he knows that this will get the snack monster fired up.  The worst part is that I'm not even aware that I'm hungry until that one little cracker gets the juices flowing. Now of course, no matter how hard I try to get back to the task at hand, the aftertaste of processed cheddar is lingering, I've realized that the breakfast bar was consumed considerably longer in the past than I had realized, and there probably isn't enough time to make a legitimate meal for myself before the next meeting starts.   Time to grab my own stash of fishies and head back to work until lunch.

At least one of of the kids, just about every lunchtime, will eat either chicken nuggets or a peanutbutter and Jelly sandwich.  My desire not to see food wasted and my snacking capacity create an incredible desire to finish up the inevitable leftovers, hanging around on their plates as they've gone off to fight over whatever toy is readily available.  The only thing that keeps me from indulging in these, is that they prefer grape jelly with their PB (I'm a strawberry jelly person myself) and I'm at the point where the smell of chicken nuggets pretty much nauseates me.  Isn't that sad?  I remember the day when I could ride my bicycle to McDonalds with my cousin, and the two of us could happily power down a 20 piece Mcnugget, fries and a drink (supersize of course) and still put all our change on the table to see if we had enough for a molten-lava apple pie.  So I'll pass through the kitchen at lunchtime, scape the scraps into the trash, realize there's noting I really want to eat and head, disappointedly back to the office.
What to do?
Ah Ha!  I know!  Perfect!
Damn, someone found the Boston Creme.