One of the life lessons I am slow to process in these, my “experienced” years, is that I simply cannot eat the way I did when I was younger.
Oh, I can still use a fork and knife and all that, but what I can use them on is another matter entirely. The cast-iron constitution of my youth, those heady days of foot-long hot dogs, giant pepperoni pizzas and peanut-butter-and-dill-pickle sandwiches, has given way to a digestive system that has become, to use a word that has been applied to me a grand total of, oh, never — delicate. And to add a word that has been applied to me a grand total of too many times to count, cranky.
Let me give you an example.
The other night, I ordered the evening meal at the drive-up window of a certain “restaurant” with a name that evokes a place where kings and queens live. It rhymes with slight hassle.
Yes. I bought a bag of sliders. Gut bombs. Depth charges.