Hippyk is feeling slightly ill at the moment.
It’s little wonder, really, since I’ve consumed nothing but slop for the past week. I’ve fallen off the healthy eating wagon with a solid thud, and I’m paying the price. I have one additional day of sludge consumption, and then I return to organic greens, abundant veggies and fruits, Alaskan salmon and wild Montana game meats. Believe it or not, I’m no sugar freak and I rare buy junk food.
Which is why I am so completely horrified by my behavior this past week.
My employer sent me across the country to Philadelphia where I promptly caved to the temptation of Philly cheesesteak. With Cheez Whiz.
And you gotta have the Whiz.
For an entire week, I tried to withstand the cheesesteak Kavorka and failed miserably, day after day. My final whimper of defeat occurred in the Denver airport on my way home where, during a lengthy layover, I succumbed yet again to cheesesteak. I was lured into the Steak Escape in the B concourse food court by a tantalizingly visual menu depicting cheesesteak nirvana. Unfortunately, this final sandwich was a horror of gummy bread, grainy steak and – gasp – no Whiz!
Still – and this is the private disgrace I cannot escape – I ate the thing in its entirety. It filled my belly with the warm comfort of fast food goo. It was most assuredly no Philly cheesesteak, not by a long shot. Yet I continued to chew, bite after bite, until all seven inches were gone and only a pathetic dusting of crumbs littered my shirt.
Unfortunately, this humiliating fall into the abyss of culinary shame will continue through tomorrow. I have a serious football game to watch, and I plan to slide my munificence into a pair of roomy sweat pants and settle in front of the TV. I’ll enjoy my favorite white trash meal while my beloved Packers prance about in their tight uniforms and slap buttocks in the manly way that only beefy, house-sized athletes can. While the team runs and throws and tackles and sweats, I will dip a succession of Ruffles potato chips into a bowl of Chunky clam chowder, and wash the swill down my gullet with cold milk. I dearly love this chip ‘n chowda combo, which became my go-to meal during an era of unfortunate poverty, and it continues to entice me almost thirty years later.
Once my Packers win that football game, I plan to awaken from this lengthy carb coma. For we are what we eat, and while I may be a Cheesehead, Hippyk is not a cheesesteak.