Tag Archives: eating

This stuff tastes like…



I’m eating the oatmeal.

Instant, to be exact, and I don’t like it. I’d much prefer a fresh made ham, cheese and egg sandwich, but I’m trying to eat healthy, so I’m eating something that is purported to scrub the arteries as opposed to slathering them with gunk.

But I don’t like it.

I am sitting at my desk – eating ‘al desko’ as its termed. This is instant oatmeal, surely one of the lowest forms of the stuff. About the only level below this is a generic brand. To be fair, it is cinnamon flavored, which is only a rung or two higher than the detested ‘maple and brown sugar’ variety, or any of those ‘fruit and cream’ concoctions they purvey.

More or less freeze-dried yakk, if you ask me. Just add warm water. (You know, yakk…don’t make me add synonyms, please…)

Losing weight? I doubt it. The beer counters that effort. Satiated? Not hardly, but at least I’m not nauseas from hunger.

Yeah, yeah, I know, there are poor people who would gladly take my cup of crap.
If there was a way to get it to them, right now, they could have it while it is still warm.


When the last Christmas cookie crumbles




or, is eaten.

We’re all aware of the hierarchy to eating Christmas cookies, I’m sure. Same as when the cookies first made their debut on the table, there is a firing order to their consumption. You start with your favorites and work your way in descending order from there. It is as individual as a pair of underwear.

Yes, underwear.

Following is a synopsis of cookies; a schedule or bill of goods, by no means thorough, much less exhaustive, or in any cardinal order, to be had over the course of my holiday season –

Butter cookies (in all manner of trees, wreaths, reindeer, Santa and candy cane shapes), sugar cookies (same, et al), shortbread cookies, pignoli, knots, crischuki, jam squares, magic bars, peanut butter blossoms, ruglah, fudge, oatmeal raisin, pfeffernuese, fig bars, tri-color, anisette, gingerbread…

But few, if any of those can bat second fiddle to a Toll House chocolate chip cookies. The good, old-fashioned stand-by. They used to be the first to disappear in my house, but over the years I have managed to pace myself, fairly closely with my expanding waistline, and spread out their consumption. They are not, however, the last eaten. No. They go long before the last, stale, mangled…crescent or anisette cookie.

I know there is 10+ pounds of dues to pay for their enjoyment, however brief. How does the saying go ol’ ‘a second on the lips, a few months of hard work around the gut’ ?. Or something like that.

The holiday season has truly ended when the last Christmas cookie is eaten. It’s a signal that the decorations should have been put away already, the tree tossed unceremoniously out the door (the exact opposite of the way it came in).

Gifts received should either be in the rotation or exchanged for store credit. If you still have any gifts that you haven’t distributed yet, mail them (or keep them for yourself). The recipient pro’ly thinks you forgot about them anyway.

The friggin’ outside lights should be taken down and maybe burned in large fire, or tossed in the trash, depending.

Make no mistake, breaking down Christmas is a project, not to be taken any less seriously than cleaning the garage or painting a room. You need someone good on the accursed lights alone. Not someone who will try to cut corners, thus setting up next year’s deployment with more work, headache, heartache, intestinal discomfort, uncontrolled bursts of acid tongue curses and incantations…

You get it, right?

The holiday season is done and absolutely nothing short of 345 days on the Julian calendar is going to bring them back. And really, who isn’t ready to stop the self loathing that comes along with the justification for another (x) number of cookies, even if they are the stale, burnt, too-spicy-and-not-enough-icing gingerbread blobs your niece made? It’s the holidays! The milk will wash them down fine.

That’s the way it goes. Nothing new to anyone older than 10. Pack it, store it, and vacuum the rug.

Time to embrace the new season: Winter. You didn’t forget, did you?

Settle in. It could be long and cold, with few, if any paid vacation days. There will be times of sudden interruptions in your carefully timed morning routine to clear a path through the newly fallen snow so that you and the rest of the family can make your appointed rounds. There will be increased disruption in your cadence by vehicle operators who don’t appreciate the loss of stability and traction on weather affected road surfaces.

Yes, it is staying light out longer. Damned lot of good it’s doing when everything is frozen. Maybe you could defrost the freezer. I hear tell it is a good time for that.

Think of this: February 2 is Ground Hog Day, a cross-quarter day, exactly halfway through the season. At this writing that is less than a month away. The Celts thought it a good time for celebration. I might feel the need to participate. Maybe the damned ground critters are good for something, after all.

The cookies should be a distant memory by then.

Blow it out yer ass

Ok, give me about an hour…


I’ve heard the ‘eat more fiber’ speech for most of my life and, for the most part, I do.  I have no problem with bran muffins, oatmeal, or salads.  I eat a lot of them.  They keep the pipes clear and help to fill me guts at mealtime.

The big pharma companies would rather you popped one of their over sized and over priced pills every morning.  Then time your day to coincide with an urgent and catastrophic washroom visitation later on.

Me, I take enough pills just trying to keep on an even keel.  I don’t need to gag down some compressed wad of hay, saw dust and shredded grocery bags just to keep me regular.

Prunes are the inside joke amongst the aged, but they may well be a better alternative to pill or liquid form laxatives.  I’ve been told that fresh figs are a fair alternative, but I don’t  imbibe in them, so it’s just hearsay at this point.

I do, however, eat prunes and let me tell you, just a few of those sweet, little chewy black gems can get things moving along just fine.  There’s no need to eat a whole box or package, unless you are the kind of person who enjoys long and frequent bowl sessions.

I, myself, am not such a person, despite what you may have heard.

But Bird, what if there is already a blockage at the toll booth?  What then?

How about a couple of flaming hot cups of full strength COFFEE? That shiite is like two state trooper cruisers with full lights and sirens screaming down the road.  It scares the bowels into movement and clears the roadway, sometimes with urgent and bombastic results.

Of course, there is the ubiquitous prune juice.  The standard bowel flusher for those who can’t masticate a regular prune proper.  Again, not something I have any prior experience with, so I will just let that one be, for now.

It stinks that we even have to know about such business.  But we humans tend to put a lot of crap into our mouths, and in quantities that the rest of the organization doesn’t much care for.

Sometimes the offensive load is rejected by customs right at the first warehouse and sent back the way it came FOB/Post Haste.  Hey, no one that I know likes to purge out the intake chute, but let me tell you, it sure beats suffering through severe abdominal cramps for hours.

Other times it gets processed through the system only to foul up the works later on.  That is when the Purple Prune grenade comes into play.  Pull the pin, let the handle fly and don’t plan any long meetings for the next couple of hours.

Ow! My liver!

No thanks

No thanks

If anything in the above picture looks the least bit appetizing to you, this might not be the post for you.

I am not a picky eater, but I draw the line at internal organs.  The casing on sausage or some choice shellfish is as far as I go down that road.

Don’t even try.  I am not a fan of, nor will I entertain the likes of chit’lins, brains, sweetbreads, liver, stomach, tripe, tongue, heart gizzards, kidney or anything having to do with any of that.  Maybe, just maybe, if I was in a survival situation and then it would be under protest.

And really, in this day and age, why the fark should we be eating that crap?  Keep in mind that the internal organs do a lot of fitering and collection of organic and inorganic trash that a given animal eats.  It is known that certain big game animal’s livers are contaminated with lead and cadmium and unsafe for human consumption.  Hey, no worries there, as far as I’m concerned.

Cadmium for crying out loud.  Who the hell needs more of that?  And as long as we’re on the subject, anything ending in ‘ium is not good for humans – uranium, plutonium, osmium, oppossium, bacterium, et al.

It’s not called ‘offal’ for nothing, you know.  The very word ‘offal’ is derived from the term ‘awful meat’.

Awful.  Meat.  Indeed.

But I digest (well, no, actually, I don’t).

I’m sure some of my vegan friends are thrusting their stalks of celery high in the air and shouting out, ‘You go, Birdwell!  But it’s not like I have anything against people eating whatever they want, it’s just that I think organs and such are repulsive, reprehensible, regurg-itory, purge-itory and downright hurl-worthy.

How in the world could you ever compare the delectable, mouth-watering smell of a grilled steak to that of a liver, onion and eggplant casserole?  Or tripe and tomatoes?  Or kidney pie and okra?  Or friggin’ baked tongue on rye?

Sheesh, I don’t know about you, but I’ve about lost my appetite.

So the other day I dropped into a eating/drinking establishment that I don’t frequent very often.  But I had some time on my hands and I was in the area and I was somewhat parched, as it were.

It is populated by folks much older than myself and I grabbed a bar stool next to a couple of guys that were about my ol’ man’s age.  I listened with disinterest as they ordered their meals, disinterest right up until the point where one of them said,
“I’ll have the sweetbreads, lightly braised, with extra sweetbreads” (no, really, he asked for extra).

I looked up from my glass for no good reason…

“Oh, a fan of the sweetbreads are ye, young feller?” He said, meeting my gaze.
“No.” I answered flatly.
“Ye don’t know what yer missing.” He returned, jovially.
“Nor do I care to find out”, I replied as I shot my whiskey to wash the taste out of my mouth.

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