Tuesday, September 22, 2009
My Baloney Has A First Name...
The refrigerator, desperate to be part of my inner circle once more, beckoned me with his cold, metal finger and a promise to once and for all purge the forbidden goodies cooling behind his doors. He wanted me to take him back, and seemed to be keenly aware that there were deals to be struck and compromises to be made. I was perplexed by this very complicated behavior from a major appliance.
He sat alone in the house all day remembering my loving touch and the joy in my eyes when the tiny light bulb inside of him revealed the last slice of cheesecake that was to be all mine. He reminisced about the days when I arrived home, arms laden with heavy bags of sinful treats and luscious, fatty meats to be fried, breaded or otherwise covered in naughty, extravagant sauces. He longs to know again the weight of thick, juicy steaks on his bottom shelf, just waiting to be grilled and devoured as if the humans were hungry lions. Oh, and the memory of that pungent smell from leftover late-night Chinese take-out was more than he could bear to recall.
But now I dare that Maytag bully to tempt me. Too many years have gone by now, and the pounds that were lost are never meant to be recovered. I swear on the soles of my Nike running shoes that all the miles passing under my tired legs will not be in vain. I shall never again fall victim to the heavenly fudge or spicy sausage balls he once kept in his chilly darkness. How dare he insinuate that low-fat yogurt and sliced turkey breast do not satisfy me? Does he truly believe that my skim milk and Crystal Light pale in comparison to his decadent eggnog and bubbly Mountain Dew? I am insulted by his food snobbery.
Let this serve as a warning. Do not push me, you behemoth of the kitchen, lest you be banished to the garage, doomed to be forever filled with bottled water, popsicles, and grape flavored Juicy Juice boxes.