Same Old, Same Old
By Dan Mackie
Some people seek thrills in their diet. My inclination is to go for the sure thing, the tried and true, the frank and the bean.
I try to eat a varied diet because my arteries demand it. But when it’s time to make a little something for myself, I use Thoreau’s “Simplify, Simplify” cookbook. Like many men, I prepare only a few basic meals. And like some men, I would not mind eating them from here to eternity.
Food commentary and writing are dominated by restless people for whom every meal is an adventure, sometimes involving risk taking — Icarus flying too close to the broiler, so to speak.
Not I. I have my go-to foods, the ones I could eat daily. You might have your own (and you can put this column down and get a favorite before we proceed). Here’s a short list:
Cheerios, with raisins. I like the cheery little Os and have since childhood. I forgo the half-sack of sugar I once poured on them, but my posse of raisins gets the day off to a tolerable, if not happy, start.
Oatmeal with fruit, fresh or canned (light syrup poured out), or raisins. In winter, the power of plainspoken oatmeal fortifies me; I like to think it steamrolls evil cholesterol.
Peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Give me all-natural peanut butter, simple jam or jelly, and I am never bereft. It’s a meal. It’s a snack. It’s a lifestyle. I like my PB&J with milk, sometimes chocolate milk. Yes, I know that sounds juvenile, but I have foresworn a lot of serious vices; allow me one. Natural peanut butter feels oily as an eel when you bring it home from the store, but if you stir it and store it in the fridge, it firms up with true peanut resolve. As for bread, I go through moods. Sometimes I dutifully eat whole grains. I migrate to Italian and sourdough, best fresh from the bakery, but I also like Shaw’s Country White because it toasts nicely. As bread goes, so goes the peanut butter and jelly sandwich.
For a snack, I crave chocolate. I often choose the dark chocolate because it is allegedly healthy in small doses, but when there’s no nutritionist in the room what I really want is a humble Hershey’s Kiss or two, or three. There, I’ve said it.
Pasta. I could cook spaghetti or any of its cousins very nearly seven days a week. Sometimes I add hamburger. Sometimes I add broccoli. Sometimes I add both. I treat myself to an expensive sauce that’s relatively low in salt and tastes good, too.
Ice cream. I have cut way, way back on this, but I was a one-man scoop shop in my heyday. In the blast furnace of summer, I like sherbet. Occasionally I want to mainline a super premium from Ben and Jerry’s. But if I had to settle on just one, it would be Fudge Tracks from Edy’s. (Gifford’s makes a nice Moose Tracks, too.) I have never seen much point in vanilla unless it sits meditatively on a pillow of hot apple pie.
If you want to witness the seductive nature of ice cream, watch shoppers stalking the frozen food case, dreamily trying to choose a flavor as if in search of true love.
Potatoes. There is nothing thrilling about a potato, but it is a food that won’t let you down. It isn’t pouty or difficult, or thin-skinned. I like mine baked, mashed or messed around with. Potato salad is a cool pal in summer. In winter, my spouse makes a potato/egg casserole, Northern soul food, that simply makes me a better person.
Hamburg. The lowbrow hamburger is a no-fuss treat, although I know I can’t eat it daily without my system going postal. (I can store fat with the best of them.) Once or twice a week is more like it. I have replaced much of my hamburger consumption with veggieburgers. They do the job, but they are veggieboring.
Apples and bananas. Banana season has been elongated to the entire year. Thanks a bunch for that. Apple season is extended nearly likewise, although a stored McIntosh in midyear can have droopy, depressing innards. That’s when evergreen Granny Smith comes to the rescue.
Vegetables. Give me corn, broccoli and sometimes, peas. A medley a day.
I have come to accept this about myself: My heart’s desire is to cook and dine in the Comfortable Rut Restaurant. At home, I have my diner-quality coffee mug, and a small spoon (I detest large ones — I don’t know why). Plastic bowls and plates are banned (ice cream doesn’t melt correctly on petrochemicals). I require a sharp table knife; most butter knives seem dull and stupid. The plate can vary, but I take my milk straight, in real glass.
Don’t misunderstand, I enjoy the occasional exotic voyage. I have nibbled on Sushi, although when I first saw it I thought it was a fancy cut of bait. I like Korean, Mexican, Thai, Italian, and the All-American Blue Plate Special.
But I want to speak for diners who don’t mind repetition, not because they lack imagination or are shackled by routine, but because they are satisfied. And isn’t satisfaction the point?
So, when I cook I go strictly for the old standards. It’s not just comfort food that I crave, it’s comfortable food.
Years ago I used to smirk at a college professor who pulled the same lunch Monday, Wednesday and Friday from a paper bag (crumpled and recycled) before a noon class. He was a magician with no surprises: presto, another plain sandwich and an apple. “My Spartan lunch,’’ he’d often say, and smile.
Now I understand what he was getting at. In a world of choices, confusion and complication, he had found his story, and he was sticking to it.
Dan Mackie lives in West Lebanon. He can be reached at dan.mackie@yahoo.com. His Web site is www.danmackie.blogspot.com.