Wednesday, February 16, 2005

Yesterday you sat spellbound or, barring that golden adjective, completely stoned as I explained my plan for the next 34 days. No refined sugar, went the royal edict, and here’s the reality: it’s going to be one hell of a Lent. I’d tell you I abstained from the stuff last night, given my general dislike for chocolate and soda and other treats, yet I’d be lying. Don’t get me wrong, I harbor no hatred for Nestle Crunch or Sprite–were a masked bandit to load her Glock with white chocolate, I’d probably struggle a bit and then have her shoot me in the mouth anyway. It’s just the cravings seldom seize hold of me.

So, last night. Dinnertime approached and I found myself in the kitchen, rooting through cupboard and fridge to find an appetizing combination of ingredients. The goal? Make something that a) didn’t have sugar and b) didn’t resemble the goulash you find in the septic tank.

Pasta. Check.

Sauce. Check.

Oregano. Smoked the shit out of that one.

Gorton’s fish sticks. Check. And baked.

Halfway through cooking, I realized I forgot to analyze the ingredients. Not a big deal because everything was salty, right? WRONG.

Pasta: “hard amber durum wheat” and “pure spring water.” I’m guessing a little “deception” too, because pasta can’t possibly be so simple.

Oregano: they didn’t even have a list of ingredients, choosing instead to slap a picture of some nondescript shrubbery on the cover.

And then I ran into trouble. Buried deep in the sauce were those five execrable letters. S-U-G-A-R. My sweet Aunt Jemima, I only wanted tomatoes, maybe a little water, but mainly tomatoes. Why couldn’t they have used corn syrup?

The kicker, of course, was Gorton apparently cast his fishing rod into a goddamn candy factory. That’s right, gentle reader, my fish sticks had sugar in them. What on earth happened to our favorite sea dog garbed in yellow? It went something like this.

“Yaargh, by me ol’ hag’s mizzenmast, ’tis a fish filled with sugaargh!” Gorton said, hand on the wheel.

“Where, cap’n? The men have sung songs about the fabled Sugar Fish. Never seen one with me own peepers!” shouted the bosun over the crashing waves.

“Thar be the Sugar Fish!” screamed Gorton, pointing a gnarled hand at a gigantic silhouette. “Ready the war cannons! And toss me ridiculous hat into the sea. I look like Paddington Bear, cursed be the monster. It walks the plank tonight!”

“The Fish?” asked the confused bosun. “Yaargh?”

“No, you stupid sea monkey, the hat!”

“Aye aye! But I lost the plank,” admitted the crew member sheepishly.

“You wha–”

The roar of the guns and the cry of the Sugar Fish silenced the captain.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM. There was fish and sugar everywhere.

“Har har! Untie the cook from the anchor, lads, and prepare for a feast!” ordered Gorton. “’Tis almost as sweet as finding six dead whores in Davey Jones’s locker on a twilit night, true as the horizon.”