Wednesday, October 19, 2005

Ubi Sumus? Quo Vadimus?

I went, tonight, to a fancy dinner. This dinner was thrown by the management of my company, and it's a real plum to be invited. They do this twice a year in concert with a sort of board-of-directors review, and you're usually only invited if you gave a talk at the review or if you were deemed to have done important work. I have been invited, in the past, because I have done relevant work, but this year, I was more of an imposter; I was invited because a colleague had done important work, and my work was relevant to his. Sort of a secondary invitation, as it were.

The point of my story, though, isn't about the work. It's about the food in relation to my sense of the basic tenets of identity and existence. Yes, I know. Very weighty. And this would all make more sense if you knew me, which of course you might only just slightly, if you've read all my previous posts, or you don't at all, if you started with this one.

The central thing to know about me is that I love food. I am a gourmand, in the true sense of the word. Cultured, painstakingly-prepared food is a joy for the senses. Cheetos are also a joy for the senses. I have a couple shelves of my bookcase devoted to cookbooks. I love to cook, and though I usually cook only for myself, that frees me to experiment and explore the world of flavor.

Another thing to know about me is that I love to drink, but I usually don't. I had a period in my life where I drank a lot, and after realizing the counterproductivity of that kind of lifestyle, I have switched that for a life where I drink very little. I don't abstain entirely, but I almost never have more than two drinks and I usually have none.

So I approached this dinner with an appetite in more ways than one. And at the same time, this being a work-related event, I approached it with a desire to conduct myself well. The dinner is renowned -- expensive red wine, batter coated enormous shrimp... this restaurant is a former haunt of George Bush Sr, so, whatever your politics, you've got to assume it isn't shabby fare.

I should possibly mention at this point that I've also been on "a diet" for the past few years. I put it in quotes because I would tell you that it's an attempted lifestyle change and not a diet, per se. I have lost approximately 30 pounds by eating less and eating healthy foods and whole grains. My summer has comprised an almost comical amount of fresh fruit.

I hit this dinner and gradually, over the course of about three hours, ate and drank the following: approximately three glasses of red wine, grilled eggplant and squash, stuffed mushrooms, mini crab cakes, batter fried jumbo shrimp, quail and mushrooms, lobster-stuffed pasta, a tiny rack of lamb, an orange-glazed breast of duck, and a mound of whipped cream with a finger cookie and fresh strawberries with coffee to finish.

This sounds good, right? Or, at least, you can imagine that it must sound good to somebody, right? It sure sounded (and tasted) good to me.

However, the effects of this meal were pretty alarming, and I'd call it "the aftermath," except that it actually started kicking in during the meal. First of all, I felt smashed. Not tipsy, but out and out drunk. Obviously, my tolerance had decreased, but I never really imagined that it would get to the point where three glasses of wine in three hours would feel like a binge. I'm a pretty good sized person; even with the 30 pound loss I clock in at 185 lbs, so I didn't expect three moderate glasses of wine to make me feel like a sorority girl. And then, the rich food had me rushing for the bathroom at awkward moments, just to get me to the point where I could gracefully return to my table and engage my conversation-mates without looking distressed.

If you told me this story, I'd consider it kind of self-evident. I'd say, "Dude, your system isn't accustomed to all that rich food. You can't just dump all that in your body at once and expect a good reaction." Strangely, though, it never crossed my mind that that might apply to me. I AM the rich food, good wine poster child. When I made the decision to generally abstain from all these things for the good of my physical and mental health, it never once occured to me that I was turning in my membership card. I've heard about dieters who lose their taste for rich food or drinkers who lose their taste for drink, but I'm not one of those people. I'm still crazy about all of that. I have fantasies about the perfectly-seared fat in the recesses of a good prime rib.

And this is where the existential crisis comes in. Who am I? I thought I was a person who revels in rich food and good drink, but who simply limits such indulgences out of necessity and good sense. But if that limit is zero, is that really who I am? Have I become, instead, one of those people who irritate the crap out of me, who wave away life's greatest pleasures because "oh, that's just far too heavy for me"?

I realize there's a middle ground here. I could have the wine but not the rich food, or the rich appetizers but a light meal, and so on. There are very likely compromises I might explore. But in real life, most of these things tend to come as all-or-nothing propositions; the company dinner at the ex-presidential restaurant, after all, does not get offered every month.

And so, I have come to the reluctant conclusion that I am a part-time Roman, in a sense. A few times a year, I will go, I will indulge after my fashion, it will make me ill, and I will consider that all part of a good time. I'm not that comfortable with that existential plateau, but until I figure this out in some clearer fashion, that is apparently where I sit.

I just hope I don't break the chair or otherwise disgrace myself while I'm there.

Saturday, October 08, 2005

It's a Dog's Life

I have a dog. She's brown with white spots, light-boned, about 40 pounds, and she's half farm-collie, so she's got kind of a sporty border-collie thing going on. Except she's very skittish, so she's more like the after-image of a border collie (as in, "was that a border collie I just saw?"). This month, her cousin has come to visit; Meg is my mother's dog and she is a standard sable collie, with a huge collie coat and long needle nose. She's a little bigger and a little younger than Chaos. (And yes, I realize that Meg is technically Chaos's aunt, but we decree all our dogs to be of the same generation.)

I'm writing about them because I took them for a "hike" today. The hike consists of a walk in the woods in a community park near my house, and it takes about an hour. Today we did it in the pouring rain, the first rain we've gotten in at least five weeks. I did this because they were restless and because I am trying to lose weight, so we all needed the exercise. I also did this because it seemed like an adventure to hike in the rain; it's still warm out, so I thought it would be very soothing and natural and not particularly uncomfortable. I wore a rain poncho, but otherwise I just got wet, and indeed by the end of the hike, my hair and jeans and boots were soaked, and my tshirt had wet streaks down it where the water had gotten in.

What surprised me, though, were the dogs. As far as I can tell, they really were not "with me" on this whole back-to-nature thing. Unlike me, they are not steeped in middle-class suburban angst; they're not worried that we're losing the environment, that our metropolitan area is getting overcrowded, or that we spend too much time away from the outdoors. They don't worry about the health of their soul if they spend hour after hour sealed off from the world. They didn't mind the fact that their rambunctiousness was tearing up our house. They don't care about their cholesterol.

So the entire hike, while they accompanied me willingly enough, they trudged along, casting woeful glances up at me that said, "What have we done wrong?" Occasionally they would stop and rub their drippy wet faces with their paws, and once, my dog Chaos just stopped in the middle of the path and hung her head while we walked on without her. I spent much of the second half of the hike trying to encourage them; they acted thoroughly defeated.

I always kind of think of my pets as reminders of the beauty of the simple life. They find enjoyment in very basic things; they're not materialistic; they plainly care more about being with me than about the circumstances of our mutual existence. But I think I learned today that they're a little more materialistic than I realized, at least in an indirect way. They may not have any concept of buying a house, but they sure do want to live in it. If you let them choose between being with you out in the rain and being with you in the pillow-top queen bed at home, they do in fact have a pretty definite opinion. And if you hike with them in the rain anyhow, they will look at you as if you're cracked.

Tuesday, October 04, 2005

Stinky Fish

I had a little bit of a Truman Show incident this evening. What I mean by this is that I had an encounter that made me feel a bit as if I'm a pawn acting in something staged. It was a funny feeling.

Here's what happened. I went to the Safeway tonight, which is about a quarter mile from my house. I went to buy milk and cream for a quiche I'm planning to make because my mom is planning to visit and I am going to have to feed her. This usually brings out my creative culinary side, perhaps to my mother's chagrin. But anyhow, I planned to buy milk, cream, something to eat for dinner tonight, and some fruit for snacking. The milk and cream were simple. The fruit was also a straightforward choice, since seedless black grapes were on sale for a dollar a pound, and you can't beat that, even if grapes do make you terribly sick to your stomach every other time you eat them. They're too yummy to pass up, and if they wind up being like an instant trip to a third world country where you shouldn't have drunk the water, then you get free virtual travel to boot.

For dinner, I went to the fish department, trying to be virtuous. Catfish was on sale, and I love catfish, so I decided to take a couple home and pan fry them, which is a technique I don't have the hang of. (Of which I don't have the hang?) I thought it would be good: a quick, healthy meal and some cooking practice rolled into one.

So I made my purchases and trundled home. I washed the grapes, chowed some down, could already tell they weren't going to sit well, and checked my email. After about half an hour, I headed over to start the fish. I began to heat my cast iron skillet, set out some flour in a bowl for dredging, and then opened the plastic-wrapped fish to wash it. STINKY!! Stinky fish! Baaaaad, stinky fish!

That was the end of the Fish Dinner Plan. Pan fire off. Flour back in the bin. Fish back in the bag. Shoes on the feet. Fish and woman in the car. Fish and woman and car returned to the Safeway.

This is the Truman Show part. I walked in with the fish and went to the customer service counter. The woman behind the counter was standing, but she was leaning so heavily on the counter that she looked quite relaxed, and indeed, she greeted me with good cheer, as if perhaps I was joining her for a beer. I explained that I had just bought this fish half an hour ago, and it was clearly spoiled, and I would like to return it. And she said:

"I know."

You what? How could you know? Or you knew, and you just let me buy that stinky fish anyhow? You still have it for sale when you know it's rotten? You knew I'd be back? You've been leaning here waiting for me? Am I the hapless nerd who buys the stinky fish? Am I on film?

So I said, kind of dumbfounded, "You know?"

She said, "Oh, yeah, uh-huh, I know. I saw you in here with your little basket."

Now, first of all, I object to the "little basket" remark. The basket is not little. It's exactly the same size basket as anyone else uses who wanders into the Safeway and picks up the baskets they offer for shoppers who don't want a whole cart. No, the basket is fine. It's me. I'm a giant. I make the basket look small. But you don't have to go commenting on it, especially not with a knowing smile on your face because you were in on the planning behind the Return of the Stinky Fish episode.

Okay, I'm not a giant. I'm pretty tall, over six feet tall, and usually people comment on that, so I'm probably a little paranoid. But still. Little basket. Sheesh.

And something else dawns on me. She is not, I realize belatedly, trying to tell me that she knew the fish was bad. Nor, I think, is she trying to tell me that she knew I purchased fish. I think she was merely saying that she knows I was in the Safeway half an hour ago buying things. And yes, she probably does know that because it happened right in front of her and I am, in fact, noticably tall.

So I don't think I'm on the Truman Show after all.

The woman gave me much more change than I deserved for the fish, and when I commented on that, she explained that if a customer is dissatisfied with a sale item, they refund, not the sale price, but the original price. I thought this was awfully generous, but I pointed out to her that, if she was smart, she'd get rid of the rest of the catfish before I could buy it and make a handsome profit returning it. She laughed at my funny joke, which just shows you what she knows.

I can fit a lot of stinky fish into one of those little baskets.