Sunday, August 20, 2006
What to do when you’re a part of the Applebee’s menu
Smothered Chicken, in fact. Eatin’ good in the neighborhood gone wrong.
At this point, chicken has become the most commonly eaten, mass-produced, homogenous and boring food item in existence. Closer to Spam than its original scavenging self, chickens spend the bleakest existence possible – beakless and jammed into sad little caged lives without choices, options, happiness or much to cluck about at all.
This lot, a life of sadness and stink, is made more depressing by the smothering agents. Covered with boring mushrooms and onions, slathered in the Apple Spec quantity of butter, salt and pepper – definitely not a combination grown in Pennsylvania, the mushroom capitol of the world.
But what, you might ask, completes the feeling of smothered sadness as your plate is laid on the table, steak knife at the five o’clock position? Mild, velveta-style cheddar, that’s what. Derivative cheese atop some boring onions, reposing amid perfect diamondback grill-marked chicken.
The cheese really completes it all, like someone making a plan for your day, leaving you without say. You know the feeling in the pit of your stomach might just be caused by powerlessness over what you’re eating. The feeling that your meal, even with two side choices, has been spread before you in the exact same way as it was for the person one table over. You know now, more than ever before, that your meal is not original, not a reflection of your tastes. Rather, your meal is just a focus group away from every other meal on every other table.
At the end of this silly meal, you find yourself identifying more with the chicken you’ve just eaten than anyone else. You feel cooped up and caged, searching for something real to sustain you. Your mind races. “Get me to the nearest farmer’s market!” you rail. You need something natural, something fresh, something free range. You might even need some Gruyere to offset that flavorless goo you just ate.
Throwing your money on the table, running from their neighborhood to yours, you run in search of something new. You might be the only person running from that hood, but you’re not afraid to carve your own path, past menus of microwaved delicacies towards a freshly stewed mushroom chili. Or maybe a spinach quiche. Whatever you’re running towards, it has to be better than that smothering chicken.
This story is nothing new. Running away from something people tell you to want and towards something your soul craves. Something natural and sustaining. Something with flavor and freshness. Will you ever find the perfect meal? Probably not, but it only takes one, so I’ll go ahead and wait. Waiting for something perfectly blended, grown with care and stewed to a heavenly combination. It’s not so bad to be hungry, waiting for the meal of your dreams.
At this point, chicken has become the most commonly eaten, mass-produced, homogenous and boring food item in existence. Closer to Spam than its original scavenging self, chickens spend the bleakest existence possible – beakless and jammed into sad little caged lives without choices, options, happiness or much to cluck about at all.
This lot, a life of sadness and stink, is made more depressing by the smothering agents. Covered with boring mushrooms and onions, slathered in the Apple Spec quantity of butter, salt and pepper – definitely not a combination grown in Pennsylvania, the mushroom capitol of the world.
But what, you might ask, completes the feeling of smothered sadness as your plate is laid on the table, steak knife at the five o’clock position? Mild, velveta-style cheddar, that’s what. Derivative cheese atop some boring onions, reposing amid perfect diamondback grill-marked chicken.
The cheese really completes it all, like someone making a plan for your day, leaving you without say. You know the feeling in the pit of your stomach might just be caused by powerlessness over what you’re eating. The feeling that your meal, even with two side choices, has been spread before you in the exact same way as it was for the person one table over. You know now, more than ever before, that your meal is not original, not a reflection of your tastes. Rather, your meal is just a focus group away from every other meal on every other table.
At the end of this silly meal, you find yourself identifying more with the chicken you’ve just eaten than anyone else. You feel cooped up and caged, searching for something real to sustain you. Your mind races. “Get me to the nearest farmer’s market!” you rail. You need something natural, something fresh, something free range. You might even need some Gruyere to offset that flavorless goo you just ate.
Throwing your money on the table, running from their neighborhood to yours, you run in search of something new. You might be the only person running from that hood, but you’re not afraid to carve your own path, past menus of microwaved delicacies towards a freshly stewed mushroom chili. Or maybe a spinach quiche. Whatever you’re running towards, it has to be better than that smothering chicken.
This story is nothing new. Running away from something people tell you to want and towards something your soul craves. Something natural and sustaining. Something with flavor and freshness. Will you ever find the perfect meal? Probably not, but it only takes one, so I’ll go ahead and wait. Waiting for something perfectly blended, grown with care and stewed to a heavenly combination. It’s not so bad to be hungry, waiting for the meal of your dreams.
