For the past couple of weeks, I’d been craving . . . something. I wasn’t sure what, but given that I’ve been living on grilled chicken, rice, Boost, and jelly beans, really, it could’ve been any other food in the universe. I think dieters can understand this best: when you’re told you can’t eat something, like, say, circus peanuts, you find yourself dreaming of cramming orange peanut-shaped marshmallows down your gullet, to the point where you can’t even close your mouth to chew, all the while pointing at an unopened bag of circus peanuts and announcing, “You’re next.” (Except in your dream, it comes out as “yump nft,” because of the full mouth and everything.)
Anyway, I wanted something. I just didn’t know what . . . until Friday night at the grocery store, when a dusty can of Mary Kitchen caught my eye. Suddenly, my unnamed craving had a name: I really, really wanted corned beef hash.
Now I haven’t had corned beef in ages, and have been steering clear of all red meat in general. I’m not trying to be some smugly superior skinny [w]itch here: I’ve been dealing with a chronic illness, and can’t digest most meats. My stomach knew I would have issues not only with the “beef” part of the canned corned beef hash, but also the 59% fat content of said corned beef hash (greasy foods are also a digestive nightmare these days). But my brain—nay, my soul—didn’t care. I needed corned beef hash. I bought the can.
I could hardly sleep from excitement. The next morning, I was up before six, can opener and frying pan ready. Hash! I sang the word as I turned on the burner. As I opened the can, my little hash-hash-hash-hash-haaaash song wavered. Good lord. I’d forgotten how much this stuff looked and smelled like dog food.
No worries. I just, uh, wouldn’t breathe too deeply as I cooked it.
I fried it up, ignoring the sputtering fat, and scooped a generous spatula-ful onto a plate. Hash! I was so hungry for it I barely managed to use a fork instead of my fingers (but I did. I’m not an animal). As the first mouthful settled on my tongue, searing my taste buds, I let the flavor sink in:
Salt. Well, more like heavily salted . . . dog food.
How could this be? I used to love corned beef hash! (Also of note here, back in my can-of-corned-beef-hash-a-day days, I was at least sixty pounds heavier. Coincidence? I was starting to suspect not.) But my brain could not deny the horrible truth before me: I may have lost my fondness for corned beef hash.
I ate four more forkfuls, just to be absolutely sure. No luck. Still salty and gross.
I wept as I dumped the rest of the hash outside for the coyotes (I like to support the local wildlife), then rushed to the bathroom as my stomach decided to move that food from consumption to expulsion without stopping to bother with digestion. I felt like I’d lost a little piece of my identity: I was no longer that young, maybe chubby, sure, but overall happy, girl who loved corned beef hash and . . . and . . .
. . . you know, I really could go for some circus peanuts.
Anyway, I wanted something. I just didn’t know what . . . until Friday night at the grocery store, when a dusty can of Mary Kitchen caught my eye. Suddenly, my unnamed craving had a name: I really, really wanted corned beef hash.
Now I haven’t had corned beef in ages, and have been steering clear of all red meat in general. I’m not trying to be some smugly superior skinny [w]itch here: I’ve been dealing with a chronic illness, and can’t digest most meats. My stomach knew I would have issues not only with the “beef” part of the canned corned beef hash, but also the 59% fat content of said corned beef hash (greasy foods are also a digestive nightmare these days). But my brain—nay, my soul—didn’t care. I needed corned beef hash. I bought the can.
I could hardly sleep from excitement. The next morning, I was up before six, can opener and frying pan ready. Hash! I sang the word as I turned on the burner. As I opened the can, my little hash-hash-hash-hash-haaaash song wavered. Good lord. I’d forgotten how much this stuff looked and smelled like dog food.
No worries. I just, uh, wouldn’t breathe too deeply as I cooked it.
I fried it up, ignoring the sputtering fat, and scooped a generous spatula-ful onto a plate. Hash! I was so hungry for it I barely managed to use a fork instead of my fingers (but I did. I’m not an animal). As the first mouthful settled on my tongue, searing my taste buds, I let the flavor sink in:
Salt. Well, more like heavily salted . . . dog food.
How could this be? I used to love corned beef hash! (Also of note here, back in my can-of-corned-beef-hash-a-day days, I was at least sixty pounds heavier. Coincidence? I was starting to suspect not.) But my brain could not deny the horrible truth before me: I may have lost my fondness for corned beef hash.
I ate four more forkfuls, just to be absolutely sure. No luck. Still salty and gross.
I wept as I dumped the rest of the hash outside for the coyotes (I like to support the local wildlife), then rushed to the bathroom as my stomach decided to move that food from consumption to expulsion without stopping to bother with digestion. I felt like I’d lost a little piece of my identity: I was no longer that young, maybe chubby, sure, but overall happy, girl who loved corned beef hash and . . . and . . .
. . . you know, I really could go for some circus peanuts.
Also I crave all of these. At once.
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