March 2008

Junk Food Would Be a Lot Easier to Avoid if it Actually Tasted Like Junk

When my brother was in high school, my mother was sure he was trying to start a famine. She drove a two-tone green Nomad wagon (handy for scouting activities) and filled it to capacity with groceries two or three times a week. (When I took her to Costco the first time, she was almost in tears. "Where were you when I needed you?") She barely kept ahead of the "starving" son.

Ray and I shared (and still do) the same love of junk food, even though Mom was (and still is) an awesome cook. Even before microwaves became a standard requirement for equipment to take to college, students lived on pizza, burgers and popcorn and I was no different. The communal kitchens occasionally gave birth to spaghetti with sauce so thin and watery it was almost pink, with enough meat in the pot to form a quarter pound burger but with the expectation was that it would feed 30. Plenty of peanut butter sandwiches (who could afford jelly?). Boiled potatoes. Care packages from home were worshipped, and neighboring fruit trees good for scrumping were visited regularly (and covertly).

It took getting older and actually learning to cook to appreciate real food again. (Earning enough money to afford real food helped.) Access to a never ending supply of cookbooks at the store (and Mom's recipe files) was a big plus.

Enter Ducky.

The man is a great cook. We push each other to experiment in the kitchen, and an extended family joins in the fun. (Even Evelyn is learning to do more than ramen and idiot proof mac and cheese.) Food is a good thing.

Enter pregnancy.

Later on, when we went from potential baby to actual infant, my mother told me she was mildly jealous—I didn't have a moment of morning sickness and, from her tales, she sure did. But me? Far from it. I was constantly nibbling my way through the fridge. And pantry. And freezer. And storage, second fridge and freezer in the garage. Nom, nom, nom, like Ms. Pac Man chewing up dots and fruit.

"What are you looking for?

I ignored Ducky and continued opening cupboard after cupboard. "I dunno." I opened the fridge and took inventory. "Something." I ran through the cupboards again, in the hopes that the food fairies had visited in the last 45 seconds. No such luck. "I just don't know what."

His eyes lit up. "Cravings?" He was finding my real-life pregnancy far more interesting than his OB studies had been in med school.

"That would be helpful. I'd know what I want. I have no clue. I just want something!"

Evelyn propped her chin on the heel of her hand. "Pineapple pizza? Pickles and ice cream? Anchovies in caramel sauce?" I didn't bother answering but I gave her a look of disgust.

Ducky almost leaped from the breakfast table. "I'll go shopping. I'm sure I can find something you'll like." He pulled the marketing list from the pad by the phone. From her seat at the breakfast table, Ev snickered.

"Want to take the van?" (I was only slightly sarcastic.)

"Thank you!" He gave me a peck on the cheek. "Get some rest while I'm gone."

"You're going to be gone that long?"

He shrugged and spread his hands. "Who knows?" He dangled the keys temptingly at Ev. "Care to join me?"

With any luck one of them will keep the other in line. I hope.

They were gone an hour and a half. An hour and a half. It took almost as long to bring in all the boxes.

In the interim, Lily had picked up Charlie at the Kemmelbachers (an extra visitation day because of Uncle Somebody's birthday), and they had arrived for dinner some ten minutes earlier. Mother and Suzy had just returned home from their jaunt around the neighborhood. Charlie gave me a hand unpacking the boxes as they came in, while Lily and Ev assisted Ducky in schlepping. Mother and Suzy (and the dogs) just stood in the doorway and watched in stunned silence bordering on awe—maybe even fear.

Ev had not reined him in and he had not returned the favor. Far from it.

Mixed nuts. M&Ms. Twinkies. Ritz crackers. Wheat Thins. Peanut butter pretzels. Chipotle pistachios. Brownies. Cheesecake. Pickles. Olives. Capers. (I think it was a two gallon jar. I won't live long enough to see that sucker emptied.) Peanut brittle. Frozen pizza rolls. Lucky Charms. (I did a double take; yes, Lucky Charms—in a three pack along with Trix and Cinnamon Cheerios.) Lemon bites. Cheetos. Danish. Frozen cream puffs. Fritos. Caramel popcorn. Beef jerky. Sunflower seeds. String cheese. Instant mac and cheese. A three pound bag of chocolate chips. Oreos. Potato salad. Leg of lab. (Good. At least dinner was covered.) Navel oranges. Gala apples. Two roasted chickens. (Okay—maybe that was dinner.) Red licorice. Miniature chocolate bars. Chicken alfredo. (Jeez, maybe THAT was dinner!) Triscuits. Cheese platter. Donuts. Ice cream. A "yard" of summer sausage (in March!). Chocolate covered macadamias. Trail mix. POP TARTS! My husband, who ragged on Tony DiNozzo for his food choices, bought POP TARTS! (I'm not complaining. I like the brown sugar cinnamon ones.) Marinated mushrooms. Five bean salad. Frozen berries. A half-sheet chocolate cake covered in frosting flowers. A sixteen pound ham and three still-warm pizzas. (Okay. I give up. I have no idea what dinner is going to be.)

Charlie looked up at me uncertainly. "Um…do you have a preference for…" she trailed off. I filled in the missing "where to put all this crap?" I shrugged and turned to stare at Ducky.

"Dear…?" I finally managed.

He looked around at the piles of food that would have kept even my bottomless-pit-supported-by-two-hollow-legs-with-a-hole-in-his-toe teenage brother going for a couple of weeks. The enormity of the flood of food was starting to sink in. (Thank heavens for storage in the garage!) Apparently they had both shopped in a fugue state. He managed a guilty smile. "I …had a craving."

Just one?!

A/N – Still in an alternate universe, somewhere around season 7 or 8. Ziva didn't go off the rails, Mrs. Mallard is still alive. But Jimmy has gotten his MD, congrats.

I rather doubt I will mention anything political from 2016 forward, and the pandemic will not be talked about, either. This might change, but since I've written several beginnings and physically thrown out the pages each time, don't hold your breath.