Daily Blague

Before I run off to Eli's to buy a chicken pot pie for dinner, I want to share a treat from The Atlantic, where, on page 102 of the March 2007 issue, Sandra Tsing Loh tells us about two women, friends of hers, who roam the frontier of sexual adventure.

Which is to say I speak to you candidly about some lesbians I know, two lesbians. They live in a suburb of Los Angeles. They're both a hair north of forty. One is a computer technician; the other, a hospital administrator. Physically, they are much as you might picture them. For the past twelve years, Teri and Pat have had a special Monday-night ritual. They order an extra-large cheese pizza (sixteen slices). While waiting - and I am not making this us - they settle in on the couch with large twin bags of Doritos. Each chipped is dipped first in Philadelphia cream cheese and then in salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. Cream cheese, salsa. The Doritos are finished to the last crumb, and the, upon arrival, the pizza as well. For Teri and Pat, this night of a million carbs is, by special agreement, guilt free. Both feel that it is better than sex.

That salsa bowl can't be pretty.

I couldn't begin - or, rather, I could only begin to eat that much food. I seem to have left the delights of gorging behind. The problem that remains is my taste in food, which is limited to dairy products, smoked meats, and deep-fried foods. With an occasional piece of chocolate (no more). What about pasta, you ask, and my reply is that pasta is simply a delivery system for dairy products and smoked meats. I wouldn't dream of eating an unbuttered dinner roll. While I can eat most vegetables without revulsion, they don't interest me in the slightest anymore. As a child, I loved carrot-and-raisin salad (made with mayonnaise - dairy!), but now I can't be bothered to make it. Increasingly, I only want to eat what I really want to eat. Otherwise, I'd just as soon go without.

On the bright side, I lost my sweet tooth decades ago. I get all my sugar from gin.