When there is no food in the house, you have a face-off with the refrigerator. I do it sometimes. Sometimes, I open the refrigerator and check to see what I can eat. At first, I only see ketchup, mustard, and basically every type of condiment. Is that what’s for dinner? I tilt my head to the side, checking out the contents of the refrigerator. I tilt my head to the other side and check to see if my vision improved. Perhaps I saw a jar of peanut butter in the back. Then my arm drops from the refrigerator door to my side in disappointment. Then I take a step back and start sizing up the refrigerator.

“Food, food, food, food,” I chant.

My palms roll into fists. The swings will come soon, I think. Hold on. This is not a vending machine. Does not matter. It is of the same principle.

“Food, food, food, food,” I moan.

The refrigerator moans as if it is hungry, too.

“Terminate! With extreme prejudice!”

I slam the refrigerator door.

I’ll be fine. No, really. I’ll be fine. There’s food in the cabinets. Maybe. I can’t act so desperate.

The cupboards open. The cabinets open. The great pantries of spices and seasonings open. The medicine cabinet opens. The Fiber 100 cereal box is ripped open. The crumbs of broken pretzels expired a year ago explode from the bag. Marshmallow bags from short-lived campfires ages ago are opened.

And the calories come. My ventromedial nucleus is a workhorse, refusing to cease the intake of blessed food. I eat as many calories as Michael Phelps eats in a day: 12,000.



When the marshmallows and pretzels and Nature Valley granola bars that are as tough as wood chips are finally eaten, I am reminded to invest some serious stock in Hostess.