Tag Archives: middle eastern food

Sue Me, Foodies

peanut butter is just as good

I would like to not apologize in advance for the fact that what follows strays significantly from the stated purpose of this blog. As the editor in chief and reader of this blog, I have overridden the discrepancy and made a dispensation for the topic. Furthermore, I stand prepared to be heavily criticized for these beliefs, especially by that interesting group of humans known as “foodies,” a term that is almost as laughable as “soup.”

The foodies might say I am boorish, uncouth, or pedestrian in my tastes, but I believe in something nobler than paragraph long menu descriptions. Do I love food? I don’t know. But I eat it, and I have found that often my satisfaction with these experiences has little to do with what I’m consuming, and everything to do with everything else. Thus, without further ado, I present some of my humbly correct opinions on food and the partaking of it:

If it’s good enough to be eaten once, it’s good enough to be eaten every day.

The more predictable meals are, the better. This applies, of course, to a meal’s existence and set time.

Temperature is more important than taste.

Anything can qualify as a meal as long as it fills you up. Thus a meal could feasibly consist of consist of a spoonful of peanut butter, some chocolate chips, plain cooked rice, and a Ritz cracker.

Coffee should be taken either with something crunchy or with chocolate, and it should be taken either in a café with friends or while reading something at home.

The finished product of a meal or dish as well as individual ingredients are equal candidates for consumption, without shame.

One should not have to wait for others if there is a chance of food or drink losing its optimal temperature.

It is acceptable to pick out one’s favorite parts of a dish with one’s fingers, as well as take at least one bite from the serving dish before beginning what is on one’s own plate. And the center of the brownies can be cut out if you don’t want any crust.

All noises of food consumption are reprehensible and must be concealed. Once the food enters the mouth it should no longer be heard or seen.

Texture is also more important than taste.

Spoons are the preferred eating utensil for all kinds of food.

A good meal is the happy phenomenon of when your innermost food desires are satisfied at the right time, at the right temperature, and with the right people.

Eating with company is nice unless you want to eat alone, and then other people should go away.

If you’ll notice, nothing was said about the quality or taste of food. This is not because these things don’t matter, but because (in my correct opinion) they are secondary issues. Bring on the angry foodie rampage.

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Purchasing and Eating a Sandwich

The time is 10:00 AM, EET. Class is over. I have 45 minutes before “education” begins again. I am hungry.

BOOM! This is me brushing past the security guards and striding down the street. My mind is one purpose. This is me and my stomach is growling, my sense of smell heightened at the expense of both sight and hearing. I am the closest I will ever be to being part of nature: I am the predator. I seek my prey.

The sun is merciless. Men in shirts with fake vests, middle school girls in fluffy white hijabs, middle school boys up to no good— I pass by them all, my mind interpreting their forms as big sandwiches. I come across all the usual obstacles— scalding patch of sand: crossed. Steaming pile of street trash: avoided. Slimy puddle: circumvented. Overheated puppies at the pet store: cooed at.

At last I arrive. I slide into the back of the small mob pressing against a shop no bigger than an Easy Bake Oven. I know this crowd: we sandwich mobbers all want the same thing and will do anything to get it. I edge in, my hackles and elbows raised. My ordering position seems quite poor. I languish in the back; I am in a forest of surrounding men; Arabic is not my first language; I prefer asking for things politely. All indicators point to failure.

However, these are only minor setbacks. I am still foreign, clueless, and girlish. My abject appearance incites pity amongst the lunching crowd. Other patrons ask me what I want or let me get in front of them, showing me where to stand in order to put my order in. Their pity is seasoning for my sandwich. It will salt my lunch.

Today, however, I catch Mr. Man’s eye from the back of the crowd, one lone Oklahoman in a haystack of Cairenes, and he knows exactly what I want. “One?” he says. And I nod. Seconds later his hand reaches across the sea of bobbing heads and I receive my prize: a hot Egyptian falafel sandwich. With my other hand, I submit payment. We nod politely at each other through the human undergrowth. He knows he’ll see me tomorrow.

BAM! I gobble the sandwich down, enter the university gates, and swerve to throw the trash away before heading back to class without ever easing my pace.

Eat fast. Play hard. Love bats. This is my life.

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