On a search for midnight food, which is a frequent one, I put down my guard and did it yet again. Sure, we had steak and vegetables last night, but that is not midnight food. I just don't feel like frying bacon, lovingly assembling some country bread with aged cheddar, slicing a red onion and a tomato, and making an amazing BLT either.
Are you fucking kidding? It's now 4:21 a.m. -- my witching hour. I'm going to spend half an hour making a sandwich? Christ, this scotch and ginger ale are good enough.
But I still did it again. I made Metro-brand "Carbonara" out of a package. I decided to spice it up with some grated Emmenthal and even some day-glo Kraft Dinner powder.
I berate myself every time I do this. I wish I could be a penitent and somehow give myself fifty lashings, razor-blade my scalp or spend twenty years in silence in a monastery.
It was categorically the worst midnight meal I've ever had. You know when you try to boil pasta, you know that you've got the timing right, but somehow it still becomes pasty on the outside, but crunchy on the inside? Well, add that to a sodium-toxic powdered . . . something . . . (how do these people come up with these noxious products? Years of research?)
God, you couldn't have dressed it up with Beluga Prime and a little Perrier-Jouet . . . it would be the equivalent of spraying perfume on a turd.
Why do I do this? Can you tell me? Why?
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