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Food
I think about it constantly-- seems I'm always in the mood. For us guys in our late fifties, there ain't nothin' quite like food. When we're out gatherin' cattle on a cold, windy winter ride, I warm myself with thoughts of food, mostly crispy fried. It would be a stretch of truth to claim I never think of sex, but, mostly, the thing that fills my mind is barbecue or Tex-Mex. I don't care much for poultry (chicken, turkey, geese). Other'n that I like most anything that you can cook in grease. My culinary preoccupation might seem pretty silly, but what is more important than a good old bowl of chili? And while we're on the subject of mighty fine things to eat, what's better than a ribeye grilled over hot mesquite? I never met a tater I didn't like. They're good in any form. I like 'em mashed or boiled or baked, but french fries are my norm. If I had the opportunity, I know I couldn't resist it-- fried ham and redeye gravy, served with a homemade biscuit. And, if I could make a food wish, the one I'd probably make would be for a bunch of fixins to accompany my chicken fried steak. If you offered a crisp green salad, I think that I'd say, "Yes, please," just as long as it was smothered in a shimmering lake of blue cheese. One of the most appealing thoughts, I believe I ever had, was to eat my weight in brisket prepared by the great "Bad Brad." All this food talk gets me goin', and my throat is really achin' for three or four over-easy eggs and a half a pound of bacon. I know that my delight would be described as "utter," if I had about fifty crawfish swimmin' around in melted butter. And anything with apples is the apple of my eye, everything from apple fritters to all-American apple pie. I always hear the dinner bell, though I'm gettin' a little deef. I get worked up in a lather just thinkin' about roast beef. The smell of food does things to me. Its aroma and its steam kinda puts me in a fantasy, and I begin to dream. In my dream, I takes my knife and fork, and my napkin, I unfurls, and I looks down at that waitin' food like I used to look at girls. Then, I go through an eatin' orgy, a magnificent, princely feast, and I eat 'til I'm near ready to pop, to say the very least. But, that dream always has to end with a final thud of finality, and I'm back again in the real world, dealin' with reality. You'd probably think that I'm a glutton, who eats everything in creation, but, in fact, my overeatin' is mostly imagination. The real situation is somethin' that I just can't deny. My gut is hangin' over my belt, and my cholesterol's way too high. So, in reality, my eatin' habits are mostly somethin' to endure. Breakfast is a cup of coffee-- lunch, a can of Ensure. Those two meals are downers, but I still got one upper. Followin' a day of starvation, I eat a decent supper. So, if faced with charges of gluttony, evidence would be hard to find. My eatin', like my love life, goes on mostly in my mind. Date: 11/12/07
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