Dinner do that

I chuffing love dinner.

Surprising, I know.

Food's great isn't it? I'm a big fan of curries, but pretty much anything bad for you is high on my list of favourite comestibles. Batter is particularly irritating for being bad for you because it's so nice. Look at the Scottish. They really know how to batter stuff. In a gastronomic way, not a violent wa . . . well, actually in every sense of the word. Fish, bananas, mars bars, creme eggs - there's no foodstuff that can't be battered to make it desirable as a tasty treat.

"Monkey giblets?"
"Ew! Gross! Are you insane? Monkey giblets! Ew!"
"They're battered."
"Maybe just the one then."

Someone once did a survey at my work asking, if you could only have one type of dinner every day for the rest of your life, what would it be? Most people at my workplace opted for the Sunday Roast, which is a respectable choice. Some went for burgers and others for something called a bucket of chicken, which sounds about as appetising as a sack of tuna melt.

I like tuna melt.

Just not in a sack.

When I was asked what single meal I'd be willing to have everyday for the rest of my life, I opted for a banquet, which apparently went against the spirit of the survey, if not the rules. This didn't stop me wanting it, and a few others then said they wanted to change to the 'banquet-a-day' plan as well, so I felt vindicated.

Of course, when it comes to stuffing your face with lovely food, one must show a modicum of restraint, or you will end up in an early, wide grave.

This is a pity, because our whole species has become efficient at obtaining food. We're the top predator on the planet, which is pretty good going for an omnivore with rubbish claws, little teeth and sweet, sweet flesh (apparently). We're also one of the few critters that can farm, thus giving us the ability (along with some ants and termites) of producing high quantities of rich food in a relatively small, local space. Were also opportunists, so it's built into our very genome to gorge ourselves when food is plentiful, because tomorrow it might not be. That's why humans are getting chunkier, as those scarce times become fewer and fewer.

Until our population outstrips these resources, most of us aren't going to have to do too much work to get hold of our dinner. And that won't happen for at least a couple of years. Yay!

Sadly, we can't (or at least shouldn't) have six huge meals a day, lest we become one of those people who must wash themselves using a hose and a pallet truck.

Imagine if you could though? I'd go for full fat fry up breakfast, then a pastry rich brunch followed by cake and doughnuts for elevenses. Lunch would be the aforementioned roast dinner, maybe beef. Mid-afternoon repast would by a standard barbecue, maybe a spit-roasted chicken for evening dinner and a late-evening curry to round off the day.

And an apple, for balance. One of my 5-a-week.

Nothing particularly fancy there. I could totally do that.

Oh, that's right. The dying early thing. Best not then.

I try and have a decent breakfast, a small lunch and a fairly sizable evening dinner. I slip (regularly), but the intent is there, and that's the main thing. Well, actually, achieving is the main thing, but that's just so hard and makes me feel sad when I don't achieve, so Ill pretend that intent is the main thing. Ooh, I'm full of intent me.

I suppose it's like saying "It's the thought that counts" which is utter crap, because people get upset when you tell them you thought about visiting them for their eighty-fifth birthday, but in the end decided it was too much effort to drive all the way to the hospital, and anyway, surely it'll be crowded around the bed with all that traction they use in fractured hips, but it's the thought that counts, eh Nan? I said it's the thought that . . . ooh, your pips are going . . . thanks for ringing . . . yes, maybe next year . . .

Occasionally, I purchase a sandwich when I can't be arsed to make my own lunch, and deliberately choose something with a ham, cheese and salad motif, as these are less likely than sausage and bacon rolls to give me that funny little popping sensation in my chest that I so dislike.

It's boring, but this is a picture of my sandwich, purchased and eaten at work just yesterday:

Don't forget to tell all your friends you read a blog with a picture of a sandwich on it. I can imagine their rush to check if it's true.

The point is, the above sandwich is a perfectly acceptable mid-day snack, and should be fairly healthy as it's got ham, cheese and, importantly, salad in it. It's one of the few times I eat salad, so I'm proud of myself for choosing it.

Swam the channel? Pfft. I had a salad sandwich.

Unfortunately, when I opened it, it became obvious that this sandwich had been made by a bloke on the sandwich assembly line, rather than a woman. See:

If a female had made it, there would be a large salad to cheese and ham ratio, and the salad would consist of a few varieties of plants, because that's what women want when they have a salad. They want a salad.

However, to a bloke, a salad is a bit of garden that they have to eat because they're grown-ups, and that's what grown-ups do. They eat salad. However, deep down, we all know that no-one really wants to eat salad, as it's not meat or cheese.

Other than raise my eyes at the lack of greenery, this didn't particularly bother me. I'd made the effort to eat the salad, and if the salad wasn't there to be intented on, then that was hardly my fault was it? Unfortunately, there was a far more sinister problem that became apparent as I ate it. The male sandwichsmith had neglected to do the other obvious thing when nominalising the salad constituent of my butty; he had failed to increase the meat and cheese component.

Now that was just unforgivable, and I ate it with a scowl that I thought would transfer bad karma into the atmosphere which would lead to the person responsible finding only a vegetable lasagne in his fridge when he got home that night. Either that or be struck by meningitis, which is a bit extreme considering the nature of his offence but karma can be a bitch like that.

Actually, the scowl just made me look like I'd got indigestion.

Right, I'm off to batter a pie.