A Big Hunk O’ Love

A. is away this week, which means, as usual, I get to eat whatever I want. I know that sounds like a stupid thing to say – it’s not like he controls anything I eat, or that his very manly presence makes me want to nibble on celery and watercress to keep my stick-thin figure to please him. Au contraire, for that old adage that married people get heavier after they tie the knot? There is absolutely a ring of truth to it, despite the fact that I thought it was a whole lot of crust, not unlike the Freshman 15 (mine was the Senior 15. Or 40.) I eat more when he’s around, probably because not a night goes by that I don’t see him in front of the television with a giant bowl of Halloween candy in front of him, the carnage of a thousand Willy Wonka confections strewn around him like litter.

It’s hard not to be simultaneously sabotaged and inspired by a nicely built man who maintains his physique despite a steady diet of Runts, Snickers and peanut butter cups. I guess that means I should get in line behind hundreds of women who feel like punching their husbands every time they suggest dinner at Cheeburger! Cheeburger! instead of Lettuce! Lettuce! Tomatoes!

But anyway, his eating habits aside, when we’re together, we eat full meals. Actual, full meals that include a main dish and a side or two, and sadly, because I cannot cook and he works from home and my God, he has to leave the house, those meals are usually out. Plus, we like to spend time together, and between work commitments and general busy-ness, it’s not hard for dinner to be the only time we’re only focused on each other. But when I’m at home, I am happiest when I graze in a manner that closely resembles a Lean Cuisine commercial. For example, last night I had almost an entire pound of homemade pickled Chinese radishes that smell like foot cheese (but oh, they are delicious!) and an Eggo waffle that I just remembered has been in the freezer for a little over a year – the Walt Disney of Eggo waffles.

Tonight, however, I had a grilled peanut butter, jelly and banana sandwich, after a recent conversation with a friend about Elvis and whether or not his death on the toilet had anything to do with straining due to the extreme difficulty in passing peanut butter and bacon turds, and I can’t recommend it enough. I mean, despite the turd association and Elvis talk. Oddly, it’s delicious with an hour-later chaser of footie radishes, which makes this quite possibly the grossest paragraph ever, and yet it’s strangely appetizing. (Recipes on request. Don’t fear the feet. Or the poop.)

The King and I diverge on the addition of bacon and/or bacon grease, mostly because bacon grease reminds me of rotting peanuts, and while I will eat radishes that smell like feet, I draw the line at rancid nuts. Bacon as a standalone, however, is an utter delight, and there isn’t enough of it in the world. But that doesn’t change the fact that it does not belong with peanut butter, and it certainly has no place touching the edges of any kind of jelly.

I used to eat like this all the time. Honestly, I was at my thinnest was when I was singlish, or at least not eating with a partner (I’ve been with A. since I was 23) and whipping together random meals that included copious amounts of fat free hot dogs, mashed potatoes from a box and the occasional meal of sauerkraut straight out of a can. Barely-thawed veggie burgers in tomato sauce were a favorite, now that I think about it, and my biggest splurge was the occasional burrito from Anna’s Taqueria. I miss those days, though I will admit that’s about the only thing I miss about being single. And it’s funny how little life changes – changes that have more to do with your daily existence than you even realize – seep into your life when you get married without the slightest awareness that things aren’t quite what they used to be. And while I plan to have a meal of boxed mashed potatoes, hot dogs and sauerkraut with mustard tomorrow, along with a side of mushy snow peas and cottage cheese, those kind of habits are ones that I’m more than willing to leave behind for what I get in return.

(This is, incidentally, my favorite meal ever, and exactly what I would order if I were on death row. I know.)

Eating is the only benefit to his business trips, for I miss him terribly, and, as I’ve discussed ad nauseam, I just don’t feel safe when he’s not here, despite a house that resembles an armored vehicle and a house alarm panic button inches from my head. Oh, oh, and a dog, albeit the tinest pug ever, who barks menacingly every time someone in the neighborhood farts and also won’t stop throwing up since we changed her food. It’s amazing I’m eating at all.

*Elvis. With bacon grease.

19 comments November 14th, 2006