On Hating Your Own Food

     Page Twenty-Four.
     Have you ever been a Personal Chef and had a job where you hated your own food so much that McDonald's was your regular stop on the way home? I'm serious. Let me tell you the story.
     I was hired on by an otherwise pleasant household to come and cook a few days per week. I was also invited to always stick around and eat whatever I made. The job started out well enough and the money was much needed. Problem was, there was Asperger's in the home. At first I thought, "I can handle this, after all I've dealt with far stranger things in life". In fact, the person in question could be charming. But what caused the problem were the demands made on my menus. Shortly after I arrived, The family member in question convinced everybody else that an ultra-low fat diet was the healthiest way to live. Subsequently, I was told to make meals which contained no more than six grams of fat. Now, six grams of fat per meal is low. I mean that's LOW. LOW!!! Allowing for three meals per day that equals eighteen grams of fat per day. I bet an Anorexic tries to stay between five and ten. Weight Watchers, last I heard, allowed thirty per day to loose weight at a healthy speed. An average healthy-weight American needs, perhaps, forty to maintain their weight. One McDonald's Big Mac contains twenty-nine grams of fat.
     This person acquired cook books and gave them to me. This person learned a lot about nutrition. I was then instructed on the assets of an ultra-low fat diet. I was gradually given stricter and stricter guidelines to follow. WOW! Was that food bad or what?
     For the record, I'm in decent shape. Anybody meeting me might say that I could loose 6-9 pounds but no more. I'd like to loose two inches around my waste. I typically eat rather nutritious food. It's what I crave most often: salads, vegetables, fruits, lean meats, water and so forth. I also love the crap but I really don't crave it as often. I really do know and live healthy eating. (Plus, I exercise a fair amount.) So, I can be pretty objective about this topic. I'm telling you that the food I made just sucked.
     There were also food allergies in the home which added a further level of complication. (I was told in advance that the food allergies were psychosomatic.) Additionally in the home: one vegetarian and one deer hunter who loved venison.
     One day after I'd been there a year or longer, the phone rang and it was a relative. I took the message and then they began talking with me 'cause they'd heard about me. They said. "Jeremy, how do you feel having to make food that tastes like sh**?"  I hemmed and hawed and tried to be diplomatic but they'd have none of it. They just went on and on about how people knew what I was capable of and how I was stuck making terrible food. I was also told that all the relatives had been looking forward to coming over on a regular basis to eat my food, but as the menu changed to accommodate the ultra-low fat requirements, family members were making more and more excuses not to come. I wish I were making this up.
     That job lasted a little while. They would always give me a great reference if I ever asked for one. But I'll tell you, I probably ate more fast food food while working there than I have since becoming an adult. I simply wouldn't eat that stuff. I wouldn't give it to a dog. 

Thanksgiving '92

     Page Eighteen.
     Did you ever receive a phone call that you just knew you shouldn't have answered?
     September, 1992. The phone rings. Uh-oh. It was my sister, Tracy. "Jeremy, where were you planning on eating Thanksgiving this year?
     "I was planning on eating it at your house. Is there a problem with that?
     "Oh good. Well since you were planning on eating it at our place anyhow, would you mind cooking it too?"
     "WHAT?"
     "Well... I'm very pregnant right now."
     "Yeah, I know."
     "Baby Picasso is due at the beginning of November. So come Thanksgiving, I'm either going  to have a newborn baby or I'll be a few weeks overdue. In either case I'll be in no position to prepare Thanksgiving dinner. Would you mind making it?"
     "Of course, I'll make it."
     "Oh, good. Thanks, Jeremy."
     Baby Picasso was born a few weeks prior to Thanksgiving. He was beautiful. I'm his uncle, I'm allowed to say that. Tracy was able to do some of the shopping and I did the remainder. I came over the night before and did some prep work. I then woke up at 5AM to get the turkey in the oven as my family's custom is to eat by 2PM or so.
     The only hard part about getting the turkey in the oven is preparing the stuffing. I make the best stuffing I've ever had and it is a touch time consuming. But, I finally got it finished and the turkey in the roaster when I was getting ready to go back to sleep. As I was just finishing everything up, I felt myself being spied upon. I glimpsed a tiny figure lurking behind the sofa.
     The Littlest CIA Operative had blonde hair and robin's egg blue, cowboy print pajamas. James Bond himself had nothing on the Littlest CIA Operative's clandestine activities. Now, I wasn't going to interrupt his mission whatever that may be. Perhaps he was on a mission from the president. Maybe the Queen had phoned him concerning a plan to save The West. Who knows? But I chose to lay low until approached. I continued to scrub pots and pans while surreptitiously watching the Operative sneak around and slowly approach the kitchen. Suddenly, a head appeared from behind the counter and it was giggling like it had just witnessed the greatest joke ever told. The head belonged to my five year old nephew, Bierstadt.
     "Did I surprise you, Uncle Jeremy?"
     "Yes. What are you doing up so early?"
     "I'm hungry."
     "Do you want me to make you some breakfast?"
     "Yeah."
     So I made him some eggs and bacon. By the time he was eating, other members of the household were waking up so I was able to go back to bed and get some sleep. The Thanksgiving turkey turned out well and we all stuffed our faces. Warhol is no longer a CIA Operative. Nowadays, he's an economics consultant. He's also a vegetarian. So every Thanksgiving when the family gets together I make special things that he can eat. I make... You know what? No. This is turning into a separate blog. I'm going to quit right here.