My husband, Fred, knowing my passion for carbohydrates, lured me out to lunch today with a trail of bread crumbs. I haven’t eaten anything beige in 6 days, and lately I’ve been dreaming in sepia tone--to replicate the look of buttered bread, no doubt.
At the particular local bar-type establishment Fred
took dragged me biting and writhing to, the only “legal” food item was the decorative lettuce trimming around the vats of cream soup at the condiment bar. I mustn’t let this diet overwhelm my life. So “When in “Pub,” eat as the “Pub-Crawlers” eat.
“Order me up some of those French-fried mozzarella sticks with a side of ranch dressing,” I said confidently to Fred, “...for an appetizer.” I added. It was going to be o.k. One naughty meal wasn’t going to pop any buttons.
When our steaming tray of tubular, cheesy, battered joy arrived at our table, I drooled. And as an extra surprise, the mozzarella sticks came arranged in a bed of French fries.
I bit an inch-sized end off the crunchy, crispy, rubbery...and FLAMING log! In fleeting seconds, I decided I was o.k. letting it burn my tongue rather than spit it out in my napkin (thus wasting delicious food). I kept it in my mouth, and exhaled, thinking my 98.6 degree air would cool the cheese off enough so it didn’t “brand me”. But...then I INHALED, through my mouth, and a flake of the fried coating soared backwards into my windpipe.
My face reddened.
I started coughing forcefully.
The ENTIRE bar crowd stopped enjoying themselves (and their gigantic sports screens) and gaped at me in total silence.
To his credit, Fred, did repeatedly ask, “Are you o.k.?” But in trying to answer and nod my head, the “crispy invader” tickling my airway, causing me to cough even more.
I was a cat expelling a hairball.
I was a barking terrier.
I was a cow who yakked up too much cud.
“Are you sure you’re o.k.?” a compassionate woman asked, at the table next to me.
“I’m fine, really.” I squeaked like a dog toy, sputtered like a model-T and whinnied like a horse. After about 10 minutes, my normal voice returned, and I was able to dab my watery eyes.
“I thought I was going to have to give you the “Heime-Licker”,” said Fred. This made me laugh, which re-lodged the flake down the wrong tube and started the whole process again. Cough, bark, repeat.
Moral of the Story: Never bite flaming, beige food around Fred and expect to “Blend in.”