It’s confession time on some food issues
Today’s column is all about confession, much of it food related.
I couldn’t even concentrate to write this column Thursday evening at home until after I’d spotted the first three things I could cram down my throat — a can of Progresso Hearty Chicken & Rotini soup (the contents, mind you, not the can); a sleeve of Ritz crackers (not the jumbo ones — I am not that much of a pig); and a pack of almonds.
And an apple.
And some Ruffle’s potato chips, the wavy salty ones.
And a cup of coffee.
I confess I caved.
I had attempted to observe Thursday, Sept. 20, as a day of fasting as part of September being Hunger Action Month, and it didn’t bother me at all, at least not until evening rolled around, and I suddenly realized, wow, Janice is really, really h-u-n-g-r-y.
And hungry Janice becomes grumpy Janice, not a very good person to be around, so for the safety and well-being of the Kiaski household, I ate.
Then I started writing.
But while I was in the kitchen, I unexpectedly confronted two other confessions head on, only one of them mine.
I came face-to-face with the juicer I had whined about wanting months back so I could make healthy drinks.
I had had one of these juices, which tasted really, really good, made courtesy of someone else, which is probably why it tasted so good.
You know how that goes — everything is better when someone else makes it.
Anyway, it was a combination of organic granny smith apples and organic carrots. So simple. Alas, all I needed was a juicer. Whenever Better Half and I went shopping, I would walk down the juicer aisle. Oh, look.
And I would sing, “Wizard of Oz” scarecrow style …. “If I only had a juicer…”
My daughter picked up on this and bought me one for my birthday — the apples and carrots, too.
The truth? The confession?
The juicer has yet to be tested, but continues to need dusted.
The apples are still in the fruit bin in the refrigerator. From April.
The carrots are history — horse treats.
I shut the cupboard door on the juicer, to relieve some of my guilt, which prompted a confession conversation from Better Half.
“I chipped one of your new dishes,” he said sheepishly as he prepared to fix his evening ice cream cone.
“What!!” I responded. “Which one?”
He opened the cupboard and pointed to it. It was one of the chartreuse plates from a collection of colors that include orange, red and cobalt blue.
I frowned and made a Janice-is-disappointed face.
“How did that happen?” I asked.
“Washing dishes,” he said. “I could stop doing that.”
I thought about this offer.
“No,” I said, forgiveness in my voice. “Just slow down, sweetums. Try to be a little more careful.”
I returned to my writing, realizing confession is good for the soul — and the stomach.
It surely inspires the appetite.
(Kiaski, a resident of Richmond, is a staff columnist and community editor for the Herald-Star and The Weirton Daily Times. She can be contacted at jkiaski@heraldstaronline.com.)
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