You Eat Cantaloupe, Really?

One food I can count on, chocolate…

When I was a kid, one of my favorite shows was Science Fiction Theatre. The host began with the words, “Let me show you something interesting.” Episodes included a story about fugitives from the future fleeing to the past to escape an oppressive government and scientists who tested synthetic food, that proved fatal to animals, on themselves. The fake food took a man’s life as surely as a bullet.

The combination of enough fiction mixed with science scared the crap out of me. Science Fiction Theatre kept me up at night, where I then caught the risqué, burlesque jokes on Love American Style. I wasn’t allowed to watch that show, but my hearing was better then. If I kept the volume on the television low, it didn’t wake my parents.

The Science Fiction disclaimer that “This is just a story. It hasn’t happened yet,” did nothing to still my imagination once engaged. I had Science Fiction Theatre and my parents to thank for influencing my eating habits. This would be all good if my habits didn’t conflict with my hubby’s eating habits.

My family planted a large garden. My job was to weed it. A snack in the trenches consisted of green beans straight from the vine swiped through my shirt to remove bird poop or bug spit. The hubby’s family believed that a layer of butter on your sandwich was necessary to make the sandwich slide down your throat.

I preferred our protein from free range animals not addicted to drugs. The hubby bragged about eating a hot dog at work that was partially petrified.

“It didn’t kill me.” He said.

“Not that day.” I hoped all the junk he’s eaten wasn’t building up in his system creating a toxic stew.

I believed in eating the rainbow. For me, that’s a salad with greens, various colors of peppers, tomatoes, radishes, cucumbers, and topped with walnuts and goat cheese. Blueberries for desert, please.

This was my hubby’s rainbow.

  • Red- steak, rare
  • Orangish-red- hot sauce
  • Orange- cheese
  • Yellow- processed slices of goo individually wrapped in plastic masquerading as cheese
  • Blue- blue #1 which followed red 40 and artificial flavor
  • Green- Mountain Dew

Brown wasn’t a color of the rainbow so I didn’t include bacon.

My husband considered his eating habits normal and mine abnormal. I considered my habits innovative, not a death wish, and his habits conventional/stuck in a box with the box containing more nutrients than what’s inside. If I wanted ingredients that helped hamburger to become something else, I preferred to add garlic and parmesan cheese to make meatballs, not monosodium glutamate or sodium caseinate.

“What about chocolate?” He said.

“Chocolate is a health food. Fourteen out of ten people will tell you this is true.” I wasn’t a saint. If the world did away with birthday cake, what would be the point to aging? I then countered with “You can’t compare chocolate to wings and onion rings covered with yellow sludge and bacon.”

Our food was killing us in different ways. My choice of baked fish with lemon grass contained mercury. His choice of fish, fried in genetically modified hydrogenated oil, contained mercury with a side of heart disease. My diet included more weed killers. He ate more products that weren’t genetically food.

Our food differences had come down to this. The hubby caught me picking cantaloupe directly out of a bowl with a fork then replacing the lid.

“What if I wanted some? You have your germs in there.” You must understand, I throw a conniption if I bust him chugging milk from the carton.

“You eat cantaloupe, really?”

Food for thought: synthetic nutrition, this is just a story. It hasn’t happened yet, bull.

We can agree on one thing. A margarita on the porch, after a day of work, won’t kill us unless the roof caves in.

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