Glutton for bad food punishment

By
Herald Editor

Once upon a meal time, I was a gastronomic glutton for punishment. Now it seems I've lost the stomach lining for it.
This past Friday my gullet discovered it was no longer 18 years old. The days of youthful transgressions involving transfatty acids are over. A 30-year reign over the land of milk and honey barbecue wings brought down by six ounces of onion ring dipping sauce.
My kingdom for a Tums.
Now call me hebetudinous - or simply a guy - but I took sick pleasure in possessing ironclad culinary consumption abilities. Deep fried Twinkies, blackened and blue cheese burgers, Tabasco with a side of fries. I could go 12 rounds with four-alarm chili and still answer the dinner bell. Even eggs over easy found it difficult to avoid a good peppering.
So I find it hard to swallow my pride - not to mention spicy bean burritos - and admit that a food got the best of me. Worse yet, it was technically a condiment.
It took awhile for the realization to sink in - about six hours after lunch and four miles from home. At first it was only mild after-dinner-nightly-news-my-doctor-says-Prilosec-indigestion-commercial discomfort. I squirmed. I writhed. I Lamaze breathed. Then my duodenum drop kicked a section of small intestine just as the minivan approached Mach 3 and our driveway.
As I sprinted for the front door - hurdling over a golden retriever and a tricycle - my inner fourth grader kept repeating "40 Yards to the Outhouse" by Will E. Makeit. After all, bathroom humor can be the best medicine for abdominal pain; or the only with some HMOs.
Two decades ago I could keep all four food groups down: fried, fatty, fiery and red dye #7. These days I'd be up all night counting acid reflux-induced sheep.
Once upon a meal time, I could trade punches with any spicy Kung Pow chicken. Call me a gutless gourmet, but I don't have the solar plexus for it anymore.
Grand Traverse Herald editor Garret Leiva can be reached at 933-1416 or email gleiva@gtherald.com

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