Remember the Ala…mode
Remember the Ala…mode
10/11/2005
Yesterday, my wife and I decided to take a rare lunch break together. She normally works in South Jordan, and I traverse the byways of Utah County. So we seldom cross paths during the day. The stars happened to line up just right yesterday, and we settled on an eatery we haven’t been to in quite a while…Marie Callendar’s.
Going to Marie’s for lunch was quite a commitment, being as I just had heart surgery in July, and the fat content of food is now higher on my priority list than before. We arrived a little after 1pm, which was perfect. A group of about six elderly ladies was just departing, leaving a grand total of 11 patrons scattered throughout the dining room. That meant there were about a bazillion empty tables, especially surrounding the salad bar…a good sign. We wouldn’t have to wait in line and watch seven other people drop olives in the shredded cheese, or spill salsa in the ranch dressing; we could do it ourselves…without an audience. This was going to be a-ok.
We ordered our lunch entrees, and both of us added the salad bar for a nominal charge. I think we’ve become addicted to the salad bar, because we can rationalize that we’re eating “healthy,” even though our entrees may have two thousand grams of fat. Plus, we get to smother our salads with several scoops of any one of several creamy dressings, each adding another two hundred grams of fat. And doesn’t it feel good to load that salad plate up until it’s dripping off the sides, and your salad takes on the look of a middle school science experiment gone terribly wrong?
About half way through our salads, the server brings the entrees, and we both immediately know we’ll need take home boxes. Our huge salads have become the entrée, and the real entrees will be the evening’s left overs. Despite our obvious gluttony, and notwithstanding neither of us has taken a single bite of our entrees, a few minutes later the server dutifully asks if we’d like dessert. My mind goes into hyper drive. “Sure”, I say. “We’ll take a pie to go. We’ll just pick one out as we’re leaving.” In the mean time, we load our four filled leftover boxes into a bag you could pack a four-man tent into.
As we’re walking toward the door, I’m listing to the left trying to carry the leftovers bag while attempting to track a straight line. All that salad has suddenly made me intentionally ignore the salad bar as we walk right past it. I remember something about aversion therapy and try to force my mind to focus on more pleasant thoughts…like which kind of pie to get.
Since I’ve already paid the server in cash for our meal and tip, I can concentrate on the selection of pies as we get to the registers by the front door. Suddenly, the front door opens, and a massive female and a couple of slightly less ample companions enter. I’m momentarily stunned to see such girth that continues to be ambulatory…without mechanical assistance. It was then that the little voice inside my head said, “keep walking.” And I instantly knew why. I had visions of my own thighs, gut and other sundry parts being stuffed with left overs, pie and ice cream. I would become a menace to society and myself…the blob that ate Provo…and probably need more heart surgery…if I survived at all.
Last night I ate my left over entree: chicken and shrimp pasta…plus my left over salad, which was, by then, somewhat soggy. I took small bites. I drank some fruit juice. And I didn’t even miss the pie and ice cream. I’m hoping my afternoon vision was merely a mirage. Thank heavens for cardiac rehab this morning!
And that's my five cents for now...
Dennis Wengert
10/11/2005
Yesterday, my wife and I decided to take a rare lunch break together. She normally works in South Jordan, and I traverse the byways of Utah County. So we seldom cross paths during the day. The stars happened to line up just right yesterday, and we settled on an eatery we haven’t been to in quite a while…Marie Callendar’s.
Going to Marie’s for lunch was quite a commitment, being as I just had heart surgery in July, and the fat content of food is now higher on my priority list than before. We arrived a little after 1pm, which was perfect. A group of about six elderly ladies was just departing, leaving a grand total of 11 patrons scattered throughout the dining room. That meant there were about a bazillion empty tables, especially surrounding the salad bar…a good sign. We wouldn’t have to wait in line and watch seven other people drop olives in the shredded cheese, or spill salsa in the ranch dressing; we could do it ourselves…without an audience. This was going to be a-ok.
We ordered our lunch entrees, and both of us added the salad bar for a nominal charge. I think we’ve become addicted to the salad bar, because we can rationalize that we’re eating “healthy,” even though our entrees may have two thousand grams of fat. Plus, we get to smother our salads with several scoops of any one of several creamy dressings, each adding another two hundred grams of fat. And doesn’t it feel good to load that salad plate up until it’s dripping off the sides, and your salad takes on the look of a middle school science experiment gone terribly wrong?
About half way through our salads, the server brings the entrees, and we both immediately know we’ll need take home boxes. Our huge salads have become the entrée, and the real entrees will be the evening’s left overs. Despite our obvious gluttony, and notwithstanding neither of us has taken a single bite of our entrees, a few minutes later the server dutifully asks if we’d like dessert. My mind goes into hyper drive. “Sure”, I say. “We’ll take a pie to go. We’ll just pick one out as we’re leaving.” In the mean time, we load our four filled leftover boxes into a bag you could pack a four-man tent into.
As we’re walking toward the door, I’m listing to the left trying to carry the leftovers bag while attempting to track a straight line. All that salad has suddenly made me intentionally ignore the salad bar as we walk right past it. I remember something about aversion therapy and try to force my mind to focus on more pleasant thoughts…like which kind of pie to get.
Since I’ve already paid the server in cash for our meal and tip, I can concentrate on the selection of pies as we get to the registers by the front door. Suddenly, the front door opens, and a massive female and a couple of slightly less ample companions enter. I’m momentarily stunned to see such girth that continues to be ambulatory…without mechanical assistance. It was then that the little voice inside my head said, “keep walking.” And I instantly knew why. I had visions of my own thighs, gut and other sundry parts being stuffed with left overs, pie and ice cream. I would become a menace to society and myself…the blob that ate Provo…and probably need more heart surgery…if I survived at all.
Last night I ate my left over entree: chicken and shrimp pasta…plus my left over salad, which was, by then, somewhat soggy. I took small bites. I drank some fruit juice. And I didn’t even miss the pie and ice cream. I’m hoping my afternoon vision was merely a mirage. Thank heavens for cardiac rehab this morning!
And that's my five cents for now...
Dennis Wengert