The other day I was cutting into an eggroll and it reminded me of a story. Yes, I cut into the eggroll. With a knife. So I could pick up a piece with a fork. What’s wrong with that? Oh sure, I’ve picked up eggrolls and eaten them out of hand. But I most likely will split it down the middle, add some duck sauce and hot mustard to the innards and then consume it slice by tasty slice. Yum.
I guess there are other things I eat differently from others. I always slice the corn off the cob rather than gnawing my way along it although just the thought of butter dripping down the front of my face makes me salivate. Unless there is a chocolate milkshake handy I dip french fries in mayonnaise. That’s the most efficient way to double up on fat that I can think of. And when I eat asparagus I have to start with the stalk and save the crown for last.
So what was the story that made the eggroll become a reminder? Once upon a time, She of We and I were dining at a Chinese restaurant. I know I wanted the General Tso but couldn’t decide between chicken and shrimp. So I took the diplomatic route and ordered the combination of both. (When it arrived I had to alternate between the two proteins, never doubling up on one or the other. But we’ve already covered my dining proclivities.) She asked how they were and I said I that the chicken could have been better. Later when the fortune cookies arrived and we went through our ritual of determining who got which, I opened mine, unfolded the tiny slip with the tiny print, squinted at it then almost fell out of my chair. Printed there in red and white was “Next time order the shrimp.” True story!
Oh. How does any of this relate to the title of today’s post? Obviously if I have to tkae the extra time to carve an eggroll or arrange my asparagus I obviously take some time to eat. But that’s OK. I’m just pacing myself. If I pace myself slow enough I could end up eating just one meal a day, all day. Sort of Roman Emperor-ish.
That’s what I think. How ’bout you?