One of our favorite movies, and lots of it is not even very funny, is Wild Hogs. For the uninitiated, the storyline is about some suburban guys who spend their weekends (and male bonding time) as pseudo-tough guys riding their Harley-Davidson motorcycles.
In our little suburban enclave here in SoCal, the weekends are littered with the same types of riders who meet up at the local foo-foo coffee house where they engage in tough-guy antics while sipping their double cappuccino frappe lattes, or whatever.
The whole phenomenon is very amusing to me, and their omnipresence affords me the opportunity to shout “Wild Hogs” whenever I catch a glimpse of them riding around the neighborhood. Of course, I never really make that reference in an environment where they might hear what I’m saying; say, in the coffee shop itself — who knows, maybe they would try to beat me up, and it’s not worth taking the chance.
However, I am quite confident I could still outrun most of them (have you seen the girth on some of these guys?), so I suppose it’s not that big a risk.
I still have a lot of fun with the whole Wild Hogs thing; it’s basically the adult version in my house of calling “shotgun.”
In the motion picture, I mostly relate to Tim Allen’s character. In an early scene, he is seated with his lovely family at the dinner table. They are indulging in a wonderful meal of meatloaf and mashed potatoes (or something like that), while Tim, the father, has to eat a salad because of his health issues.
That’s me, all right.
I can really relate to that feeling, as I
have been sentenced now live in a gluten-free, organic, non-carb, non-HMO non-flavor healthy household because everything that ails us begins “in the gut.” So, we have to keep that gut well.
Don’t get me wrong. I really appreciate the diet within which we all live and, truth be told, we all feel much better for it. Plus, my Better Half does an extraordinary job making it all tasty as well as beneficial for us.
And I guess I could cheat, if I really wanted to, but I don’t for the most part. Why? I do feel better these days because of what I’m not eating anymore, and I can thank my Spouse for that.
But it doesn’t mean that sometimes it can be difficult to stay on the sober food path. In fact, it can be downright challenging.
On a practical basis I now come to appreciate, no, cherish those foods that harken back to the days when I pretty much shoved anything I wanted down my gullet.
Ah, the Good Old Days.
One of the remnants from these Days of Yore is popcorn. I consider it a treat, and it is also something I look forward to as an evening snack. Apparently, popcorn can be loosely characterized as somewhat healthy. But because of the numerous, evil ingredients contained therein, microwave popcorn has been banned in our house for ages now.
So we now make popcorn with an extraordinarily loud hot air popper that not only cooks a solid bowl of corn, it also scares all the pets living with us and causes everyone else to either retreat to another room or turn up the television so loud our next door neighbors get a good idea of what we’re watching.
Yep. It makes a lot of noise.
Here’s the less savory part that I’m somewhat ashamed to admit.
I don’t like sharing my popcorn.
With anyone. Not Dandy Dog. Not my eleven year old. Not the ornery ancient Mama Cat, who likes the (unhealthy) salt.
The way I look at it,
I’m getting screwed in general with the guilty food items I just want to enjoy an entire bowl to myself.
Is that so wrong?
Before condemning me, please consider that not only do I work like a slave most days, I’m evidently also aging and have to deal with regular mailers from AARP and other indignities, not to mention I
just feel like crap a lot of the time seem to be growing grayer hair by the minute.
“Daddy, can I have some popcorn, please?”
How do I resist a plea from my own child? With Daughter, it’s easy. I just tell her to make her own.
With the eleven year old it’s a bit trickier. And to be honest, I used to share with her, but then she started eating half the bowl when I wasn’t looking.
With her, I have a measured response protocol, depending on the circumstances:
a) After bedtime, “I’ll save you some. Go to bed.”
b) Before bedtime, “Yes, you can have a little.” Followed by, “No. Not that much! Stop!”
c) All other times, “Is the eleven year old home? No? Okay, I’m firing up the popper!”
Wild Hogs, indeed. I’ve got those guys beat, even though I ride a Honda and not a Harley.
And to my Family. I love you and all that you do for me.
Just let me eat my popcorn in peace. Thank you.