Part 17 (2/2)

Or if they do, it's really really really expensive.

Bottom line, even I could figure out that the powders were packed with more protein, vitamins, and minerals than anything I had in my shopping cart. I looked at the s.h.i.+ny tubs of powder, then I looked at my lame cart of old-fas.h.i.+oned broccoli, pears, and lettuce. Suddenly, it looked so terribly ... conventional.

How had I come to the food store and bought all the wrong things-food?

Obviously, anything in the tubs was superior to the groceries in my cart. For starters, all the stuff in the tubs was one word, with capitals even-FoodState, SuperFood, DailyFoods. How can a lower-case banana compete? And broccoli doesn't come with a BlenderBottle.

So I'm confused.

If you could make all food taste like chocolate, why wouldn't you?

And why have a meal, when you can have a meal replacement? You can throw away all your silverware-and your teeth.

And who wants dumb, old-fas.h.i.+oned peas when you could have powder with ”Cold Fusion FoodState Nutrients”? This is food that splits the atom, people. Or maybe fuses it together. I don't know, I always forget what cold fusion is. Clearly, this food is way smarter than I am.

Maybe it is rocket science, after all.

Eggistential

I have a problem to solve, and I'm talking about something really hard, like programming a VCR, or marriage.

I'm talking about what to eat.

Here's what happened.

I used to eat everything, including red meat. Hamburgers, steaks, the whole thing. I loved rare roast beef with extra Russian dressing, which I used to order at a place called the Corned Beef Academy. That's how much of a meat eater I was. Even my restaurants were carnivorous.

But then daughter Francesca was born and we started going to a petting zoo that had the cutest calf in the world. Brown eyes like melted Hershey's Kisses, and a spongy nose as pink as the inside of a conch sh.e.l.l. In no time, I'm naming the calf and visiting it way more than anyone should. Francesca lost interest, but I didn't, and after a time, I felt too guilty to eat red meat. Don't get me wrong. It wasn't an ethical thing. I just couldn't take the guilt.

Then years later, I saw the movie Babe, Babe, starring a baby piglet. I know that was only a story, but I saw that Hollywood piglet do everything the fictional piglet was supposed to do, so I started feeling too guilty to eat pork chops and bacon. You starring a baby piglet. I know that was only a story, but I saw that Hollywood piglet do everything the fictional piglet was supposed to do, so I started feeling too guilty to eat pork chops and bacon. You have to be crazy to quit eating bacon. Bacon is the meth of meats. have to be crazy to quit eating bacon. Bacon is the meth of meats.

And to be clear: If you eat meat, I don't judge you, I envy you. I want to be you again. I don't know what to eat anymore, because it gets worse: As you know, I have these chicks. They need a special fence with a top to protect them from hawks and stuff, so until the fence gets built, I sit and watch over them like a chicken security guard. In other words, I get no work done and spend way too much time watching them, and you know where this is going.

Now I can't eat chicken.

First off, they're all cute and little, like cartoon chicks. You remember Sylvester and Tweety Bird. I Taw a Putty Tat! How can I eat Tweety Bird? Even with fresh rosemary?

Plus, they do cute things. They make adorable peeps and coos. When they drink water, they throw their heads back like they're gargling. They run around gathering tiny twigs and running back inside the coop with them, like me after a sale at Neiman Marcus.

And each chick has a different personality; b.u.t.tercup is a show-off, Yum-Yum bosses everyone around, and Josephine never shuts up.

They're women, remember?

The Bard Rocks, the black-and-white chicks who make up the chorus, love to be held. They're soft as a pillow in the crook of my arm, and their little feet are warm with blood. They even stay still while I kiss them, and I've become a big-time chicken kisser.

I try not to touch their b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

That would be weird.

So now I can't eat red meat or chicken. I even look at eggs funny. Is a yolk a future Yum-Yum? Or is it just yummy?

When does chick life begin? It's not an existential problem. It's an eggsistential problem.

Remember, I'm not preaching at you, because I'm not even morally consistent. My car has leather seats, and I own a leather jacket. I buy leather shoes by the boatload. As long as I don't eat them, I don't feel guilty.

Meantime, all I can eat is pasta, bread, and oatmeal. I went from a no-carb diet to an all-carb diet, all because of guilt. I've gained five pounds, and now I feel guilty about that.

And tofu isn't the answer because I've done everything possible with tofu, which means drown it in something with flavor. I rotate teriyaki sauce, soy and ginger sauce, and even tomato sauce, which could cause me to forfeit my Italian-American credentials, should it come to light.

I make protein shakes like they're going out of style, and now I'm even getting sick of chocolate.

What's the matter with me? How can I change it? What should I do?

All I know is one thing: I'm not getting a goldfish.

Willing

I'm making out my will, and, as you can imagine, I'm having the time of my life.

Or death.

It's a laugh riot to contemplate your own demise. Not that it takes a will for me to do it. As you know, my mother taught me that I can perish at any moment, especially if I stand near a toaster during a thunderstorm. But I never had to make so many decisions, all of which involve things that take place after I'm dead. You'd think that at some point, I'd get to stop worrying, but no. Evidently, death isn't all it's cracked up to be. I bet my skin doesn't even clear up.

But I look on the bright side. If I had died when I was a struggling writer, I'd have nothing to leave but three maxed-out credit cards and a very hungry dog.

Bottom line, now I have to decide who gets the do-re-mi when I'm gone, which is easy. I have only daughter Francesca, and she's cas.h.i.+ng in. I told her this morning, and already she's looking at me funny.

I'm locking up the steak knives.

I'm telling you now, if something happens to me, we all know who did it. She's smart enough to make it look like an accident, so don't believe a word. She went to Harvard, remember?

But who inherits is only one of the decisions I have to make. A harder question is raised by the living will, as opposed to the dying will, I guess. You know what a living will is; it's a piece of paper that says what you want to happen if you're completely incapacitated, like me after a head injury or two Cosmopolitans. The main question is do I want the plug pulled? I say no.

”You're kidding, right?” my lawyer asks, over the phone.

”No. In fact, I want that plug duct-taped into the socket, so it doesn't get kicked out by accident on purpose. And while you're at it, get me an extension cord, a surge protector, and a generator, right by my bed. Just in case. And padlock it. Did I mention that my kid went to Harvard?”

”You mean that you want your daughter to visit you for years and years, even though you're in a coma?”

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