While lying in bed reading Candyfreak, which just arrived in the mail today from an amazon marketplace seller, my left hand rested on the upper portion of my right arm.
WHEN DID MY ARM BECOME SO SQUISHY? AHHHHH. AHHHHHHH. AHHH...*breathes in*...HHHH.
- You too can abuse amazon images
Oh well, that's not surprising. So! Back to the book. I think I love the author, Steve Almond, except for his "freak physiology". In his own words:
I have been endowed with one of those disgusting metabolisms that allow me to eat at will. To phyysiologists, I am a classic ectomorph, though my ex-girlfriends have tended to gravitate toward the term scrawny. The downside of this metabolic arrangement is that I am a slave to my blood sugar. If I don't eat for too long, I start thinking about murdering people. and I am inexorably drawn toward fats and carbs. I hate most vegetables, particularly what I call the evil brain trio -- broccoli, cauliflower, brussel sprouts -- which tastes, to me, like flatulence that has been allowed to blossom. Left to my own devices, my diet would consist of dark chocolate and baguettes, with perhaps a grilled pork rib thrown in for variety. I realize that I am going to hell.
Damn you, Steve. But I guess it worked out for the best as he gets to eat lots of candy and tell the world, teeming with people who have normal and less than optimal metabolisms, about it. From my arm-squishiness, I probably shouldn't attempt to duplicate Steve's candy crusades in any way, but after reading most of the book (shall finish it later tonight), I have an exploding desire to revisit Economy Candy and load up on candy bars I've never had before. And corn syrup be DAMNED; it's in everything!
[*Thinks*...yes, indeed I do that, however sparingly.] I'm going to hell too. Or I would if I believed in hell.
While on the subject of food writing, I'd like to share a bit of Jeffrey Steingarten. I'm still plodding through It Must've Been Something I Ate, not because it's boring by any means but because I'm slow (except with the candy book; CANDY, HELLOOO). In one chapter, he recounts the experience of trying to cook a pizza in his oven, which he had to trick into become a gazillion degrees in order to somewhat match a restaurant's oven's temperature. It worked. Kind of:
The results were brilliant, especially in concept. My oven, believing incorrectly that its temperature was near the freezing point, went full blast until thick waves of smoke billowed from every crack, vent, and pore, filling the house with the palpable signs of scientific success. Yes, the experiement had to be cut short, but it had lasted longer than the Wright brothers' first flight. Inside the oven was a blackened disk of dough pocketed with puddles of flaming cheese. I had succeeded beyond all expectations.
You know what my favorite part of that paragraph is? Puddles of flaming cheese. Do I have the brain of a 5-year-old or what? I think that would be a great name for a blog, if any food-lovers out there need a title.
On a totally random (but food related) note, today I opened a bag of scented Jasmine rice that I bought at the Chinese grocery store last week and it smelled amazing. Like. Rice. But. AMAZING. I'm going to eat it for dinner tonight.