No, don’t say I’m being harsh. It’s true: I hate you, Cheesy Mac. You are the bane of my existence. I am a free-thinking woman who has dined in Tokyo, London, Geneva, Venice and Paris. I’ve partaken of meals in 4 star restaurants. I have a discerning palate.
And I can’t quit you.
I personally own 8 different gourmet flavors of sea salt. I can tease dozens of nuanced flavors out of a glass of wine. I eschew table salt as vile, prefer espresso to coffee, and I like 72% cacao dark chocolate best. Yet when it comes to this little cup of crappy pasta with powdered cheese, I cannot restrain myself.
Normally, stuff like this isn’t in our house. When my husband and I are on our own, we don’t buy much in the way of instant packaged food. We don’t usually have sodas in the house or cookies or even chips. We aren’t completely fanatical, but our “junk” food tends to be a bit more grown up. But when my stepson is with us over the summer, our house becomes a den of vile insta-foods.
I hear you out there, thinking I’m a snob. Well, I am, and I’m not. The problem here is that I seem incapable of denying my desire for Cheesy Mac and Oreos and Nacho Cheese Doritos. When they are in my home, they taunt me from the pantry. Instead of reaching for a healthy snack after work, I find myself whipping up a mac and cheese cup, and the 3:30 that it takes in the microwave is three minutes and thirty seconds of self-loathing. I become Gollum, whispering under my breath about my “precious”. I can tell you this: I’d sure rather blow those calories on a lovely slice of bleu cheese or a fantastic red wine, but the junk food calls to me. It mocks me. And then I find myself with a lovely glass of red and a mini-tub of crappy pasta and powdered cheese.
Tell me the truth… what’s your kryptonite?