Forbidden Foods

This story involves food; the kind I usually can’t afford.  As for the photo, well, one hot, mid-summer’s day on Ruff Life in la Parguera, no wind, no tourists, no moolah, just waiting for the hurricanes to come, I suddenly decided that if I couldn’t afford to purchase the kind of food I craved, I’d paint some.

My upright fridge/freezer on Ruff Life was unplugged and used as a condiment and spare food locker, since it took too much power to maintain at bay, which was all the time.

 As usual, one story leads to another.  In Puerto Rico, I discovered another of Life’s cruel jokes:  the one time a good friend was the ice cream man, and I didn’t own a working freezer.

A local distributor, Mojo would occasionally have seconds and returns, destined for the dumpster.  It was torture, especially when asked if I’d like to take home a half gallon of mint chocolate chip, the green kind.  Who says no to free ice cream?  Me, time and again.

However, I was finally rewarded for all those years of pain and suffering.  One summer we house-and-animal sat for good friends who skedaddled back to cooler Maine, and Mojo made frequent deliveries.  Partner Stan taught me to add mini chocolate chips so that I’d enjoy even the Butter Pecan.

With the advent of digital equipment and my subsequent ineptitude, a couple years’s worth of photos have disappeared, including the freezer shots I took.  There wasn’t much food, but there was TONS of ice cream that summer; all flavors.  A 5 gallon container of chocolate, crystallized around the edges, took up half the freezer.

This job had great perks.

A week prior to B&G’s return (who avoided sugar), Mojo called to see if we’d be interested in a box of ice cream sandwiches.  Sure, I said; it’s not one of my favorites but I no longer cared.

The box contained 4 inner boxes of 12 sandwiches each.  You’re joking, I said at the door, but when he turned to throw them away ‘cause his own freezers were full, I said to bring ‘em in.

96 ice cream sandwiches divided by 7 comes to 13.7-something per day.  We ate them for breakfast, lunch and dinner, with coffee, as midnight snacks, and I still handed the last dozen out to whomever I met along the way moving back out to the boat.

Yesterday provided an unexpected piece of really good luck (maybe), which I’ll share at another time (if), but it involved a vegetarian, who expressed her distain for pizza; couldn't even go for the silly veggie-pineapple-feta cheese kind, but that's not really pizza anyway.  Ugh.

Anyway, Lady X mentioned the magic word and I couldn’t get it out of my mind thereafter, you know how that goes.  Every once and awhile I treat myself to a meal out; usually it’s the dollar McDuo and maybe a chocolate shake, but there was a bank error in my favor to boot, so just like Monopoly, I zoomed past Go into the local pizza joint.  Walking towards the unfamiliar chain, I thought to get a couple of slices, but pricewise, In for a penny…in for a pound…

“I’ll sound like an alien,” I began to the 20-ish kid; that’s all right, he patiently replied.  You see, everything was fine until I got close to the door and spotted something to the effect that either they could bake it or I could.

Until a couple months ago, I never knew those places existed.  I’d followed my friend in to order dinner to take home to her crew; reading the menu, it sounded good and I was starving.  Kinda spendy; do they have smalls?  What do you mean I have to take it home and cook it myself?!

“Will you calm down; it’s delicious.”

I’m missing something.  Back at the restaurant (they can’t be called Parlors unless someone’s spinnng the dough) I timidly asked what kind of pizzas they had for just me.  He pointed to, and read aloud just in case, the signs taped to pans on the wall.  Medium; Large; Extra Large.  I kept my snide remarks to myself.

“OK, I'll take the smallest one.”

“You mean the Medium.”

“Whatever.  Cooked, yes, please.”

All I wanted was Pepperoni.   To save money, he suggested a couple of disgusting sounding large, not extra-large, pie specials, with soda.  Nope, just Pepperoni; maybe some extra cheese.  I haven’t ordered a pizza in years but I behaved like a pro and never wavered at the tally.  It would stretch for two meals or more, I justified to myself.

Not the way I consume.  Minus the slice I gave to the homeless guy, I inhaled 5 right off the bat, so I’ve got enough for breakfast.

Forced abstinence can be good.  I do have a freezer now but it's the size of an oversized shoe box and the only ice cream containers which fit are the original half-gallon box.  Anything round or oval just won’t squeeze in, but that’s fine ‘cause the box-kind are the brands I can afford.  I just throw some mini chocolate chips on top…