Reinventing Popeye

Is there a baby boomer alive who doesn't remember Popeye and his spinach? (But Popeye's spinach wasn't leafy like I show here. It came from a can. . . an indication that Popeye has indeed been dressed up, my friends, and now eats fresh spinach.)

And, thanks to Popeye,  I grew up thinking that spinach was the most repulsive thing ever put on the face of the earth.  (I also grew up thinking that the only vegetables God ever invented were frozen, but that's a post for another day.)

And as each child watched Popeye bust that can open and pour that green slime down his throat, even the most innocent of viewers would start to feel uncomfortable. . . instinctively knowing that something had gone terribly wrong with the marketing of Popeye.  Oh yes, he and his spinach would save that bumbling Olive Oyl from the clutches of Bluto all right.   But Popeye was never a hero you would emulate. In fact, you would run the other way if you ever saw him coming!

For who wanted to slurp some ugly green stuff from a raggedly-opened can?  Who wanted biceps that suddenly pumped up to something roughly the size of the Holland tunnel?  Who wanted to have anything to do with Olive Oyl anyway???

It was clear.  Popeye was crude. . . tasteless. . .gauche. .  .passe. . .

Cheering for his successes was hard.

And consuming his spinach was worse.

So how, someone please tell me, did this disgusting leaf work it's way into my daily diet?  How is it that I'm adding it to soups?  Eating salads?   Frying spinach patties? (In olive oil, no less. . .)

Please tell me. . . How do I get in touch with the genius who reinvented Popeye?

'Cause if THAT body and THAT food can suddenly be in vogue. . . imagine what  the same reinventor can do for A Mom on Spin's derriere and her beloved macaroni and cheese?

Oh to hope,

perchance, to dream. . .

My Bad

I don't know about you carnivores (because I never was what you might call a healthy eater until I became a reluctant vegetarian) but every once in a while I get sick of things that are good for me.

Let's face it. . . how long can a macaroni-and-cheese-addicted woman live on bowls of lentil stew before the craving for the ultimate "bad" food takes over???

Oh, I'll tell you how long a macaroni-and-cheese-addicted woman can live on bowls of lentil stew. . .

42 days.

Because that's when I last had a fix.

On the way out of town from my family vacation. . . the vacation where I ate nothing but healthy food. . . but then stopped at the Wawa when no one was looking. . . .and proceeded to shovel that cheesy goodness in my mouth as I drove up the Garden State Parkway. . . .silently thanking the Good Lord for Jersey weekend traffic. . . yet smearing a cheese-stain on the driver's seat belt none-the-less.


All of 42 days ago.

And now, my friends,  I find myself jonesing for another.

And let me tell you that not getting the exact badness that a girl craves, when she craves it, makes her eat some funny things.

For it was the jonesing that made me eat those little pasta pearls for breakfast instead of adding them to my soup at lunch yesterday.  And it was the yearning which drove me to eat a half block of cheddar cheese at 3:00 in the afternoon for no good reason.  And it was my very craving that had me discard my brown rice for mashed potatoes at dinner.  And it was my very addiction which had me tossing and turning all night wondering how. . .  when. . . under what circumstances. . . I could get my next fix of that creamy-cheesy-lip-smacking-goodness that I live-and-die for.

You heard me.

I live-and-die for. . .

Can We Talk Tofu?

Dear Tofu,

I want to like you. Really I do.  But the truth of the matter is that my vegetarian tofu love is just not happening at the rate at which I would like.   And it's not for lack of trying, mind you . . .

Oh, I have squeezed you.

Sliced, chopped and cubed you.

Seasoned, dipped, slathered and marinated you.

 And then I've sauteed you. . . blended you. . . baked you. . . grilled, broiled and pan-fried you. 

ALL TO NO AVAIL !!!

And so I have a few simple questions to ask:

• Must you always be such a blockhead?  I'm sure your pressed goodness could conform to any mold they put you in so how about trying to look like a pineapple . . oreo. . .candy corn?
• Do you have to be so wiggly?  Even when I buy you in your extra-firmness mode?  'Cause I don't usually like my dinner to have the texture of . . . well. . . Jello . . .
• And how about taste?   Did you ever think of adding a little?  It doesn't suit you to be so unsavory all the time. . .
• What's so silken about you? Do you think that adding that one little adjective will make you more exotic?
• Are you cold-blooded?  Why am I required to change your water more frequently than water in a fish tank?
• Why does Drip Dry not want to eat you simply because he's afraid of growing man boobs?  I usually can pass anything I don't like off on my husband but he seems to be holding fast on keeping his testosterone levels out of your estrogen-ridden clutches.

and last but not least, Mr Tofu,

• WHY DON'T YOU COME IN EXTRA CHEESE FLAVOR?

Oh I know that I, too, tend to be a stubborn-wiggly-washed-out-inelegent-estrogen-ridden biddy at times. But I always try to smother myself with cheese, my friend.

I'm convinced the cheese part is key. . .

Let's Talk about Food Aversions

So let's talk about food aversions for a bit.

Because mine don't seem to be going away.

Last night I went to a wedding reception in a beautiful banquet hall.  Well anyway, my husband and I arrived early to the reception and were directed down a Romanesque hallway full of candlelight and romantic music to a near-empty bar area where a sensible young woman stood next to a table of drinks and politely asked, Can I offer you a martini? whereafter I sat in a big leather armchair sipping my cosmopolitan while waiting for the rest of the nuptial guests to arrive.

And arrive they did.

About 400 of them.

At which point the door to the  room for the hors d'oeuvres was opened and there was an array of food on display like nothing I've ever seen before.   And while my husband and the others I was with proceeded to come back to the table with lamb chops, sliders, sushi, chicken, sliced steak, and all other sorts of messy, bloody, creepy, crawly, meaty things. . . I immediately headed to the nearest station and came back with mushroom ravioli in a cream sauce and a piece of fried mozzarella.

Both white.

Now my second venture to the pasta station found me a wee-bit more adventurous and I came back with rigatoni in puttanesca sauce. . . .after-which I proceeded to push away the olives and tomatoes and selectively eat the pasta. 

White again.

So my third venture was to the bar where I ordered a glass of wine.

White.

And when the doors to the main ballroom opened and the waiter came to our table to take our dinner order, I quickly asked if they offered a vegetarian entree.  So that is how I found myself eating a to-die-for-risotto-with-grilled-asparagus for dinner.  They even threw a dollop of mashed potatoes on my plate for good luck!

And I don't have to tell you what color risotto and mashed potatoes are. . .

Okay my friends, you may not believe this. . .  but after the waiters came onto the dance floor and did some sort of musical flambe show and the wall to the Viennese "table" was literally rolled back, I thought I might throw up as 399 wedding guests nearly knocked each other over running to get their dessert.  Swarming.  They were swarming around that food like. . . resembling. . .exactly as. . .well some "creatures" which aren't exactly white unless they're in a laboratory.

So after sitting at the table alone for a good five minutes, I spied the item I wanted from a distance. . .stood up . . . steeled myself. . . headed in. . . and immediately came back with the only thing I could stomach.

Popcorn.

So once again, I suppose I remain. . .

My stint as a vegetarian

Okay, my daughter has ratted me out.

I did attempt to become a vegetarian for a quick second or two. (Truth be told, it was ten days - but who's counting???)

No "eco-conscious" person will ever tell you this, but a strange thing happens to you when you swear off of meat.

You begin to crave a simple hot dog in the worst way. And my favorite - taylor ham???? (it's so cliche calling it pork roll) well, suddenly it's hard to live without.

And so I caved.

I quickly found myself at my favorite pub ordering a bacon cheeseburger (well-done, mind you. Why would you settle for anything less?)

I applaud you, my darling, for your convictions and your will-power.

But I still don't like the thought of recycled toilet paper.




And my p.s. to your p.s. . . . I remember some little girls being terrified of those "cloppers" . . . . Did you really want them sharing their bed with you - or are you happier that a little harmless fumigation paved the way for your to sleep soundly at night???? I didn't see the cat or dog growing any extra limbs . . . did you???