What DON’T I crave?! Unlike the words to K.D. Lang’s song, my cravings are not constant. One minute I want pickles: pickles of all kinds–hot, sours, half-sours, sweet, bitter, you got it, I want it. Then an hour later, if I so much as get a whiff of vinegar or anything slightly sour, god willing I will projectile vomit all over your nice oriental rug.
Normally, you would not find me snacking on apples the way my hubbie does. He takes the idiom, “an apple a day…” literally and packs an apple everyday like a good school boy. Me? I’d rather eat it baked between layers of butter, flour and shortening. But there I was last week, chomping away on apples like a buck-tooth mare. I was actually craving the crunch and sweetness of a plain, raw apple. It didn’t matter what kind, as long as I could sink my teeth into it and suck the juices running off my palm and wrists, I’d be happy. And for now, anything that doesn’t induce gagging is A plus in my books.
Oh, and then there was mac-n-cheese incident. Under natural circumstances, I can give or take mac-n-cheese; It’s not a do or die food for me. CB loves the stuff and can eat it day in and day out for months, years (fact: he grew up eating nothing but mac-n-cheese and pierogies). And it doesn’t even have to be homemade. One of his favorite fix-it-yourself meals is Annie’s mac-n-cheese from the box. So the other day, I woke up from a deep slumber and while still in a daze, I detected the scent of processed cheese, the kind that is perpetually melted and oozes out of a space-age silver pouch. Before I knew what I was doing, I was shoveling the neon orange colored shells into my mouth, remembering the words, “resistance is futile.”
And then the ultimate testament occured on Saturday when far deep within the womb echoed the cry for Pierogies. Nothing could soothe the pangs of nausea and calm the clawing hunger but the taste of pureed potatoes and onions in a chewy, doughy dumpling that has been quickly boiled and then slightly browned in olive oil to create a crunchy exterior. NOTHING! And then it called for freshly made kielbasa–not Hormel’s or Applewood’s–but Christie’s–the Polish lady on 37th avenue. Not the thick kind but the thin 1/2 kind with extra that little bit of paprika and garlic–baked not pan fried.
Why bother with DNA testing when you have such telltale signs to go by? Paternity tests are so early aughts. You hear that Maury Povich?