Accidental Foodie

I have a very, very low opinion of people in general.  [And yet I am continually surprised when they get up to some kind of fuckery.  I should delve a little deeper into that, but, eh, who cares, right?  I'll just hate and be disappointed. It's like my favorite type of game because it never, ever ends.] [But not a low opinion of you, because I think you, in particular, are fucking awesome. Really. You are.  My favorite.]

Anyway, some of the people I hate the most are those who are VERY VERY serious about fill in the blank here. Whatever the topic is, there are those people who feel very strongly about it, and I just have no patience for people who are that ardent about whatever and have zero sense of humor. [I am also a person who likes to skate really really close to the edge of propriety when exercising my sense of humor.  Actually, I am that person who will say that horrible funny thing and then go, "What? You were all thinking it."  Even if you weren't, you'll still laugh.  Maybe uncomfortably, but whatever, it was funny.  What the hell was I talking about?  And don't I sound like a complete fucking tool?  LET'S BE FRIENDS!]

ANYWAY AGAIN, I was thinking this most recently about people who are super serious about food.  Who only eat organic this and locavore that and need to know who threshed the wheat that made that bread and was it fired in a brick oven and were those bricks in fact made locally by artisans who have spent their adult lives [apres working on Wall Street] learning exactly how to make the precise type of brick needed to get the perfect crust on that bread?

I think about these people dismissively, and, if I'm feeling generous, a bit pityingly.  And I do this even though I'm reading Martha Stewart or Real Simple or Organic Gardening magazine.  I think they are ridiculous to care that much about food and have WAY too much time on their hands and need to stop the incessant braying about their food and how important it is to blah blah blah.

And then, the other day when I was trying to figure out what to make for dinner and I realized it would all take forever, because I didn't start any bread dough or pizza dough or defrost any Amish chicken, I was shocked to find that holy fucking fuck I AM A FUCKING FOODIE.

I am one of these douchebag people who care about where their food is from and only cooks from scratch and is NOW GROWING HER OWN GODDAMN FUCKING GARDEN FULL OF FOOD.

Oh, my god, what is wrong with me?  I have become what I loathe.

Soon, I'll start reading Goop, and that will be the absolute end.




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I haven't gotten anything for my husband for Father's Day.  Oh, wait.  I GAVE BIRTH TO HIS CHILD.  That's enough, right?  I'll just point to my c-section scar and say, "You're fucking welcome."