Category: Food

Mom’s favorite restaurant gives me diarrhea. No matter what I eat from that bountiful Sunday buffet, it’ll disagree with my digestive track. Whatever the secret ingredient is, she’s immune to it, but it makes me sick. Or perhaps Jesus spares Mom because she goes to church.

Whatever the case, while at the restaurant, I liberally use red hot sauce, which contains antibacterial capsaicin that battles against food-borne pathogens.

Then, I counteract the effects of that dubious food by taking a tequila shot when I get home. However, that’s only effective if we return home in time. That’s too big of an “if” when it comes to the shits. Of all the restaurants that should serve alcohol, this one does not.

This last time, I warded off digestive problems: I brought my tequila shot with me. Strawberry lemonade never tasted so good.

Reminded me of the time when I used to teach at an American school in Alexandria, Egypt. While living in Egypt, I commonly carried a flask in my purse because the vast majority of restaurants didn’t serve alcohol.

One of the parents had invited several of their kids’ teachers to dinner during Ramadan. Once we received our nonalcoholic drinks, I offered the other teachers to top off their drinks with a splash of tequila. None of them took me up on my offer.

Afterwards, some teachers reported having digestive issues. Since we all had eaten the same food, we ruled that out.

Then, we compared what we’d drunk. None of teachers who had karkade, a sweetened hibiscus tea, were sick. As a matter of fact, all the teachers who reported being sick had the lemonade. Except for me.

Tequila had neutralized whatever was in the lemonade. So, began my belief in the medicinal power of tequila.

Tequila’s also my go-to for a hot toddy. Other people reportedly use whiskey, but, to me, the best combination for a hot toddy is hot water, local honey, a few whole cloves, fresh lime juice and a shot and a half of tequila. Soothing and delicious!

I’m not a healthcare professional. Don’t even play one on TV, but I firmly believe that tequila should be a part of any first-aid kit or emergency bag. For medicinal purposes, of course. After all, there’s good reason that people will sanitize their hands with drinkable alcohol as a last resort.

Last resort because alcohol, especial tequila, should be consumed. But that’s why they call it an emergency.

Just like when when the remnants of an ice storm lingers on your windshield. As heartbreaking as it sounds, you can use tequila to melt that ice if you no longer have isopropyl alcohol.

But really, with all the technology available, you should always have enough forewarning to get the isopropyl alcohol and save your tequila for times such as when my mother invites you to her favorite restaurant.

Mom, my sister, her son and I visited Dad in the hospital after having our Sunday “dinner,” which was actually lunch. Either way, I knew our visit would be long since Mom liked staying until Dad had his dinner around 5:30.

So, I packed my iPad to work on my digital illustrations while visiting with Dad. At 87, Dad takes multiple cat naps at the drop of a dime. He has never been much of a talker, which has been a great complement to Mom’s loquaciousness. Besides, there’s something lulling about a hospital room that induces sleep.

I was impressed how my nephew fell asleep, by lobbing his head backwards with a serious arc in his neck and shoulders while not falling over backwards. If I hadn’t witnessed the feat multiple times during our visit, I wouldn’t have believed that he had the flexibility to accomplish the pose.

After several hours ticked by, Dad finally received his dinner. Being a notoriously fast eater, I could have eaten up the entire tray in under 20 minutes.

Not Dad. He tantalizingly fed himself so slowly that I thought most of the food would slip off the fork before entering his mouth, which was why we encouraged him to use his spoon. Once his eating utensil finally arrived at its destination, Dad would then lay it to rest on his tray as he chewed.

Very good technique for anyone who’s trying to eat less. Yet, Mom and I encouraged Dad to pick up his spoon had continue eating. Periodically, he complained that he had to “rest.” As slowly as he ate, I was surprised that he felt taxed by the effort.

In the meantime, I was so hungry, I found myself watching Dad too intently. That slow arch of a food morsel lifted from his plate into his mouth. Although I’ve never been a sports fan, I redirected my eyes to watch the basketball game. March Madness helped distract me from temporary hunger madness.

Before we left the hospital, I requested that my sister make her famous ol’ fashioned popcorn on the stove. She was the only one out of us three sisters to inherit Mom’s love for cooking. As a matter of fact, I prefer to “cook” like my other older sister by ordering take out.

Mom also made a request: guacamole.

I immediately informed Mom that my request had come first. In actuality, my sister easily made both since neither one was a time-consuming process.

Just so happened, there were no good chips to pair with the guacamole. Of course, my nephew ate those stale potato chips with the dip. I, on the other hand, topped my bowl of popcorn with a dollop.

Absolutely delicious! How had I lived over half a century and not paired these two things before? Granted, chips are a better dip delivery system, but it’s not the only tasty one.

The guacamole didn’t quite bind the popcorn together like melted marshmallow-style popcorn balls, but that just helped to encourage me to eat slower, smaller bites and truly savor my food. The trick was to eat fast enough for the popcorn not to become soggy, but slow enough to enjoy.

I’m not exactly sure when I began “packing it in,” but I estimate over 30 years ago when I was a Peace Corps Volunteer. During that life chapter, I didn’t have to rush due to a time crunch. Upon reflection, I recognized that habit as a sign of depression. Even though I found healthier ways to deal with depression, for some reason, fast eating has remained with me.

I rationalize this habit during my 30-minute lunch break, stating that I don’t want to be late returning to work. Yet, when I had an hour-long lunch break, I ate just as fast. Even when not at work or when I’m not consciously thinking about it, I eat quickly. I’ve conditioned myself not to savor my food.

Sure, I acknowledge when something’s delicious. That edible pleasure hasn’t escaped me, regardless of my eating speed. Yet now, there’s always another thing to do. Whether it’s returning to work, or finishing laundry after Saturday morning breakfast, or working on some creative project.

I used to think that eating at a slower pace was a retirement habit. Now that I don’t think I’ll be in the position to retire, my next experiment will be to eat slower with less food on my plate. That way, I won’t feel the need to pack it in as quickly given whatever time frame I have. Also, 20 minutes has to pass before the brain registers that your no longer hungry.

Perhaps that science will help remedy my panicked eating…along with prioritizing savoring my food and “resting” like Dad does.

My sister gifted me some crabs that her next door neighbor had prepared. The thought of them sounded delicious, but as soon as I opened the container, I was apprehensive.

Although I knew they were dead, I braced myself as if they would move. Even after I warmed one of them up, along with some hush puppies, I cautiously removed the crab from the air fryer as if the added heat may have reanimated it.

Why did Mom have to join me at the kitchen table? After all, she and Dad had already eaten over an hour earlier. She took one look at my bowl and began pestering me.

“Don’t eat the dead man. You’re not going to eat the dead man, are you? You’re going to take the dead man out, right?”

Clearly, the whole point of her conversation was to see how many different sentences she could make using the phrase “dead man.”

In the meantime, I nibbled away at the skinny legs, which had next to no meat, but served to delay the inevitable. Finally, I started in on the body. As soon as I removed the majority of the shell, the whole thing was as appetizing as a dissection. Nothing looked edible.

I asked Mom which part was the dead man. For all her nagging, she had no idea, which confirmed my earlier suspicion. She advised me to ask my sister, who conveniently walked in the front door at that moment.

Once my sister told me to only eat the white meat, where the legs had been attached, I finally came to my senses and recognized the familiar-looking crab meat. Although it was well-seasoned, the usual dining pleasure was barely there.

Next time, I’ll stick to big crab legs, crab meat that has already been incorporated into a dish and lobster tail. Amen.