Chow: (n) food.

There aren’t many things about which I am a purist.

I greatly believe that human beings have the right to phrase, think, pursue and even live out their hearts’ desire.

This doesn’t mean there aren’t ideas and phrases I find annoying–and one of those peccadilloes is when people decide to get cute about
describing eating.

I personally like the word “eat.”

I see no reason to make it more clever. So when people refer to food as “chow,” and slap me on the back, asking me if I’m ready to “chow down,” I suddenly turn into a German Shepherd and want to bite them.

After all, German Shepherds do chow down. They put their faces in bowls and stuff the food into their mouths until it falls out the sides, returning to the bowl to continue their slurping and crunching.

I am not a German Shepherd.

I don’t eat chow, and therefore, I don’t “chow down.”

I also don’t like to pull myself up to the old feed trough. (There seems to be an animal theme going on here…)

I don’t like to shovel food.

I don’t particularly care to inhale my food.

I really do just like to eat.

And I don’t want to be prissy about it, but when I hear the word “chow” I think of someone who wants to convey he or she has been in the military, or a 13-year-old girl who thinks she’s cool because she knows the Italian word for “good-bye.”


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Barbecue: (v) to cook meat, fish, or other food on a barbecue.Dictionary B


What is the definition of annoying? Annoying is anything that makes me grouchy instead of allowing me to enjoy the pleasure that was intended for the moment.

  • Barbecues are annoying.
  • Barbecuing, even more annoying.
  • Those who barbecue–annoying most of all.

Am I the only person who wants somebody to fix me a steak, put it on a plate and let me eat it instead of having to listen to the evolution of the whole process or hear the cook explain the tedious measures necessary to garner just the right sauce and tenderness for the meat?

There is more discussion of food at a barbecue than there is unabated joy in devouring it.

And God forbid that you should find yourself standing at the grill next to the Master Chef. By the time you get done listening to a recitation of recipes, mystery ingredients and correct temperatures for the best flavor, you will want to run from the premises and go out and eat a salad.

That’s how serious it is.

Everybody thinks they are an expert on almost everything–but most people eventually admit some weakness.

But not barbecuers.

They are the best, or nothing at all.

That’s why they make silly hats and aprons for the process, as a uniform to go along with the insanity.

So when I find myself invited to one of these escapades, I sit at the furthest table until I am sure that the food is thoroughly cooked, and then, when most people are being bored by the giver of the feast with a lecture on charcoal, I slip in, steal my portion from the platters, and run into the woods to eat … like a scalded bear.


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Ate: (v) past tense of eatdictionary with letter A

“Eating” is not my problem.

“Ate” is my problem.

Merely thinking about eating or sitting down to a table, acquiring a plate, spoon and fork and looking at food, deciding what I’m going to partake of, is all part of the natural process of rejuvenating my body.

Having done that to an excess, stuck with not only unwanted calories but a conscience that seems to have the tenderness of a young Baptist Sunday School girl, becomes a torture to my soul. (I often wonder why that young Baptist little girl doesn’t show up before I eat things, to tell me how I should avoid them instead of arriving to taunt me with my sins of gluttony.)

I’m also accosted by a society that believes it has no responsibility for plumping us all up like Thanksgiving turkeys, to be slaughtered off by a myriad of ax-wielding disorders and diseases.

So I’m forced into a corner where two conflicting spirits are constantly battling over my mortal soul.

The first spirit is what I call the “what the hell” specter. For after all, I’ve survived a long time being fat, and how much extra life span am I going to gain by eating lettuce instead of smoked sausage? And my “what the hell” demon also asks if that extra extension of months or weeks is worth losing the flavor?

Then I have a little tiny spirit, somewhat dwarfed in comparison, who insists that any time I can acquire to extend my creativity and fellowship with humanity is well worth a bit of sacrifice over one plate of food.

It is a battle I occasionally win.

  • Sometimes I can look at what I ate for the day and believe it is normal, or maybe even capable of reducing my girth.
  • Often I can look at what I ate and professionally present to you exactly where I went astray, and tilted the scales–literally–to my detriment.

It is impossible to believe that either my willpower or our society will ever gain the compassion to free me from my obesity.

I have three recourses:

  1. I can try to win, one plate at a time.
  2. Eat my way into an early grave
  3. Or attempt to live off the grace of God…while convincing myself that bacon is healthy.


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