The Food That Saved Me From Eternal Despair

Alright it's been a bit since I posted about food. And let's be honest, I really really love food. In fact, after I finished my last post, I realized that "eating" could also be something I got paid to do. (I also considered adding "drinking" to that list, but really, "drinking" professionally REALLY means you're A) a deadbeat B) an alkie or C) a writer, and while I had no problems identifying as the latter two, I didn't want to confuse the issue or the public by possibly being grouped with the former) I digress...

H'omigod. I had found the perfect job for me- Food Critic. How amazing would that be? I could eat food at restaurants (awesome), write about it (also awesome) and most importantly GET PAID (holy crap, awesome FTW!). For about 37 seconds I was pretty much not only going to have a job, but I was also going to award myself the Most Geniusest Genius EVER medal and about at least 50 Gold Stars.

And then, disaster struck.

Reality, that solidly built she-hulk in a faded floral print dress with runs in her hose, laid her massive clammy hand on my shoulder. Her large, fishlike lips moved. At first I thought she was hyperventilating, and then I thought the world was in slo-mo and I was dreaming and then I realized she was laughing at me.

And like 2-pack-a-day smoker, her voice crawled out of that mouth and into my head.

"Food critic? That's a laugh. There's only like seven of them alive and five of them live in the UK and Europe. Think again, bub."

Sigh.

I knew she was right. My shoulders slumped in despair as she lugged her way Lurch-ily into the background of my mind. Food critic jobs were hard to come by, and there might actually even be training or stuff you have to do before you can be one (I thought about researching this, but then decided it was better not to hurt my heart further). So, sadly I decided not to amend the list to include "eating." I didn't know what I was going to do with myself. Ever. Why was I even here? What was the point of living anymore?!?!

(This is pretty much my face at that moment.)







In my state of deep melancholy, I walked into the kitchen to get something to munch on. You see, there are people out there in the world who, when faced with stress or sadness, do not eat. They waste away, often tragically, to skin and bones. Sometimes, movies get made about them. Sometimes, they make the movies themselves. In any event, depression = thin.

I am not one of those sorts of people.

Faced with bad news, I go immediately to the loving support and comfort that only a drive thru window can provide. Carbs are my solace. Cheese is my joy. Despair, I banish thee in the name of all things good and true and sugary!

So, faced with reality's awful rebuke of my Genius idea (and aside from not even getting to be a Food Critic, I wasn't going to get the Geniusest Genius Award OR the Gold Stars- ugh, my life was clearly an #epicfail), the kitchen was the only logical place to go. I opened up the cabinet (oh dubbs, if you've been following since the beginning, one of my slothy roomies finally moved out- HUZZAH!) and looked bleakly at my options. 3 cans of beans, 2 cans of tuna, assorted spices and herbs, and a cup of applesauce. F.M.L. I was beginning to wonder how I could pull the blades out of my Mach 3 shaving razor and end it all.

I turned to the refrigerator. It was similarly bleak- pickles, cottage cheese, carrots, bologna. And then, just when I thought all hope was lost, I spied something small and red towards the back of the bottom shelf. It was a plastic lid on a round container. I reached in. Could it be? Was it? It WAS.



Hummus.

Hummus from above (or in this case, the back of the fridge).

Hummus, with it's smooth creamy texture and its delicious chickpea and garlicy taste. Easily a ranking food on the Greatest Foods of All Time Ever list, this treat from the gods (specifically the ones hanging out around the Mediterranean) suddenly made my day much brighter. I grasped the hummus and the carrots, tried to hold back my tears of joy, and dashed back into my bedroom. And even though I STILL didn't know what I was doing for a job, I had hummus.

My plate ranneth over.

My Life, Sans Bars

When I took the job I currently have, I did so knowing that I would have to relocate. And not just any relocation. I was moving to WEST TEXAS.

Not just the west side of Houston- this was beyond even Katy. Not even west to Austin or San Antonio. No, all. the. way. west. Like, close to the New Mexico west.

For those of you unfamiliar, let me paint you a picture. I'm a fairly urban person. I thrive in densely populated neighborhoods. I like diverse populations and ethnic food. I drive with a sense of urgency.

Houston has (depending on who is measuring and how they're doing it) about 4 million people- give or take a hundred thousand or so. The town I am currently residing in has *almost* 13,000- give or take a hundred or so.

Notice the very large discrepancy between those two numbers. And I was pretty sure the 13,000 people i would be living with were NOT the 13,000 crazies/hipsters/urbanites that lived in my immediate neighborhood in Houston. These would be small town folks, born and raised.

Nevertheless, I'm an adventuring sort, and I accepted the contract (which, by the way, requires quite a bit of work outside- yet another "new experience" I was a touch apprehensive about, to say the least- AND, in case you were curious, I actually have grown to like quite a bit). SO my yearly studies all finished, I packed up Mariah (my slate grey Saturn) and headed out west.

The trip out was quite wonderful. I'm a huge fan of road trips, and this one proved to be quite satisfying- I drove fast, sang at the top of my lungs, managed to get out of a ticket for going 16 over the posted limit (the combination of my not being from the area, the 44 oz Big Chug in my cup holder, and some very convincing but not-quite-obnoxious protestations that my bladder was about to burst (thank you, MFA training) seemed to do the trick).

I arrived in good spirits and was promptly made aware that the application for the housing I had turned in and received email confirmation about had not actually been received (confuse me?) and I had no place to move into. To spare the details, I'll suffice to say that I was hastily put in an apartment the next day (after some kind friends offered a couch) with some roommates. The apartment was, shall we say, not exactly spic and span (for more about THAT situation and where it went, read the previous post).

As I began to acquaint myself with the town, there were some definite oddities: in a town this size there are 5 (!!!) Asian restaurants but only 2 Mexican (and we're like, 3 minutes from the border- ok, maybe a little bit more than that, but only like 15), the Walmart closes at 11 PM, and what was soon to become the most unnerving fact: this town is in a dry county. No bars.

I'll repeat that for emphasis:

NO. BARS.

There is one restaurant that manages to have a bar because it's a 'private establishment' by some sort of legal finagling, but otherwise nothing.

To be fair, my friends whom had worked with the company the previous summer had made me aware of this arrangement. I remember hearing the words "dry county" but really, what does that mean? Lets go discuss it over a beer.

Well, what it means is- you can't go discuss it over a beer, unless you want to pay $5 for said beer or you want to do it in an apartment where the floor might be alive in certain areas.

'Ok, fine,' I think, 'I don't need a bar.'

And that, actually, was a lie. It was a lie I didn't know I was telling, but I was a lying bastard and I sure as hell was telling it to myself, and myself was TOTALLY falling for it. I'm so gullible.

I should mention at this point that I like to drink. I'm not picky about what I drink either - equal opportunity consumption is something I support (in fact, I might have donated to a PAC advocating it, I'm not sure... I was probably drunk at the time...) I'm not an alcoholic (I can stop anytime I want. No, really. I can. Just let me finish this drink...) but I do thank my lucky stars that alcohol exists and is a part of my life.

I didn't realize I was a lying bastard until about 2 weeks into the job- after a particularly grueling day. It was late, I was tired of work, tired of my colleagues, and I wanted a drink. Only, there was no place to go. No divey shack with a patio. No 30 x 10 cinder block building with one window with a Bud Light neon sign in it and 6 stools. Nothing. Nada. I think I might have cried a little bit that night.

As the time passed I tried to understand just how people went through life here. Bars are essential to society- most importantly, they provide the post-industrialized nation with the highest stress levels in the universe with it's most important relaxation aid- booze. It's definitely (with a few exceptions) bad form to drink at home alone, but drinking alone in public is a national past-time. Alcohol is the third most profitable American market behind oil and porn (I just made that figure up, but it sounds pretty true to me).

Equally of note, however, bars are social places. They are where people meet- new people, friends, hook ups, whatever. You can go to a bar that you've never been to, and suddenly, you're not alone. You have something in common with the person next to you- and that is, you want a drink. Instant friendship.

And now that I think about it, sitting in my room drinking a beer (yes, alone- blogging is a TOTALLY acceptable excuse for drinking by one's self) there's another equally important function of bars. They are escapes. They are places of refuge- from work, from bills, from living situations that make you crazy, from the people that you see every. single. day. They are respites. 'Come unto me and drink' they say. 'I am the fount of booze- you who drink of me shall get buzzed and love the world a little more than you did 30 minutes ago.'

And let's be honest, who doesn't want that?