Blackout

I had a private moment with a cup of blackberries this morning (no, not the cellular devices you overworked vassals, come on). I'm well aware that most of my dining experiences are quite singular, if not almost always alone but nevertheless, these blackberries were able to coax every last drop of my attention into a sensory hypnosis worth sharing with you in this recently recovered consciousness. Feeling not-so-awesome and in a just-coming-down-with-something funk, I meticulously arranged a quaint breakfast of Greek yogurt with a hint of honey, a small cup of maple-pecan granola and an equal amount of fresh blackberries for a light but nutritious little brekkie. Please take special note that if you've not indulged in Trader Joe's brand, individual yogurt cups, particularly the nonfat, honey-flavored ones, you're missing out on a large amount of potential pleasure the universe had in store for you (+ for those of you who are beginning to find this blog to be no small advertisement for TJ's - you'll get used to it. I work there, I love it and they've got great food). But back to the blackberries . . .

Although blackberries are usually picked in high-season summer months (think May, June, July) throughout the northwestern United States, several varieties that land on our kitchen tables, hearken from similarly ideal climates in the United Kingdom, Chile, New Zealand and a few Mediterranean countries. The little gems I had the pleasure of crunching into traveled all the way from Mexico and were perfectly ripe, boasting seductively deep obsidian and purple facets of deliciousness. Crunching into each morsel provided a special moment for meditation for aside from raspberries, which possess a similar but not as satisfyingly tight anatomy, blackberries have infinite pockets of shiny, taut skin that when pierced, burst into tiny doses of perfectly balanced flavor. My teeth took great joy in crushing down upon each berry, stomping the tart liquid into sweet oblivion and washing the juice throughout my palate, picking up remnants of oats and pecan and finally whisking away a hint of creamy yogurt quietly lingering in the wings. Having amassed a veritable antioxidant stockpile for a grueling morning of battle against the evil forces of germdom, I sank low into my 1000 thread-count, cotton barracks to reflect in quiet reverie upon the many wonders of such a simple task as eating. Taking care of course, to pick the very seeds of wisdom from in between my teeth.

Gut Instincts

Your twenties definitely afford you an embarrassing excess of opportunities to reconsider age-old lessons for the umpteenth time. Last night had me face to face or rather, intestine to intestine with the ol' familiar maxim of trusting your gut. Upon leaving work last night, a mischievous desire to indulge in a handful of not-so-nutritious items on the eve of my random weekend (*note: a rare consecutive Thursday/Friday were to constitute said weekend) seized all better judgement and the first sin that I caved to was chicken-less nuggets. Reaching into the cold case to compare Morningstar Buffalo Wings with generic Trader Joe's brand soy nuggets, I was stopped by a colleague who informed me that the buffalo wings had the soy nuggets beat hands-down in the flavor category. Hm. Simple enough decision. Soy nuggets lack flavor: Mimi places nuggets back.

It felt wrong though, putting those nuggets back. Not because I felt sorry for them. Not because like an anxious follower, I was ignoring my usual maverick tendencies to run against the proverbial grain and eat whatever the hell I goddamn pleased. Nope. Simply put, I felt strange sending those soy nuggets back to their frozen grave because the mere mention of 'flavor' and especially in reference to a product already labeled as 'buffalo wings' set off an alarm in my nether-regions that spices were involved and that my stomach and thus initially, my tongue were not going to be so hot with the idea of these vegetarian hot wings. Alternatively, the sweet, nutty goodness of nothing more than over-processed soy protein to compliment a simple salad for the evening was sounding sufficiently safe and comforting. Me: safe? Pft.

Gleefully adding cinnamon graham crackers, semisweet chocolate morsels, maple pecan granola and a few beautifully marbled McIntosh apples to my hoard, I returned home to bake up and enjoy those devilish little wannabe wings. Twenty minutes of toaster-oven transformation and more effort to chew them down than I care to confess later and my gut was giving me that 'I told you so' attitude that often follows adventures with chile. No amount of cutting off the breading or what I momentarily dubbed the genius addition of some counteractive and cooling plain yogurt was able to cure such an oversight. I left my dinner plate terribly unsatisfied and mildly ravenous. But like so many hard-earned lessons in life, this was nothing a little bit of chocolate couldn't cure.

Hi

I work at a grocery store. That's right. With an advanced degree and a hefty amount of professional experience I've found myself stocking shelves + tapping register keys at the busiest novelty grocery store in all of Manhattan, in fact, in all of the United States. One could argue that this is acceptable in the wake of such a harrowing economic crisis. One could also argue that it is commendable to set aside ego in order to earn some income that will buy time for more passionate career searching. Perhaps it's neither. Perhaps it's a bit of both. Either way, tonight I'm working the late shift. Ugh.