In my own personal Garden Of Eden narrative, the forbidden tree that I would be tempted with would have chicken tenders hanging from the branches.
These savory, crispy little balls of fried death have no nutritional value, save for perhaps the ten percent that is chicken, yet they have a hold on me that I can't shake.
I am the luckiest guy around, and I love my life, (my wife, my kids, my extended family, my friends, the place I call home) so I have no business shortening it by eating fried food.
But brown food is the best.
When I am having a particularly long day, and I find myself out on the road somewhere, far from home, the desire for fried chicken morsels sometimes sweeps over me, and I am forced to confront the central theme of my life, immediate gratification versus seeing my daughters grow up into young ladies.
The following is a true temptation story, told with the caveat that my wife wishes I would not ever tell this tale. (Objection noted honey, but I'm working on a temptation theme here, and this story is too perfect to leave out.)
I once found myself at a movie theatre near where I live that serves food during the film, and I, desiring to both eat healthy and not spend any more money, brought a granola bar inside with me to snack on.
But the problems with eating a granola bar while others all around you are partaking in "pub fare" are numerous.
The first is the smell.
It's not fair that you can smell fried food for miles around, and most healthier options (say a salad or tofu) emit little to no smell at all.
I need to keep a strict tab on the air currents where I live, so as to avoid the wafting smell of a fryolator. (Or as I like to call it, the "see-you-later")
Those same scientists who gave us the seedless watermelon and the baby carrot need to work on making a Caesar salad smell like a chicken tender.
So while sitting in that theatre, desperately trying to hold on to my resolve to eat healthy, a basket of steaming chicken tenders (dubbed the "Love Me Tenders" on the menu) was placed directly in my line of sight.
They were for the group sitting right in front of me, and they somehow went untouched for the entire length of the movie.
This group had lots of food delivered, and somehow they didn't seem to want this particular basket of vitals that was placed at the end of a row of orders.
This basket of tenders was so close to me that I could practically read the ingredients on the packet of honey mustard sauce.
And so, there, for the course of an entire movie, I was face to face with my nemesis, the freshly fried chicken tender, with only a thin layer of civility separating us.
It was my George Costanza moment.
As the movie ended, (near the dinner hour) and the group in front of me filed out of the theatre, the basket of tenders (on a golden bed of crispy fries) remained unmoved and completely untouched.
I am not proud of what happened next.
I made one of those deals with myself that says "If you go to the restroom and return to the theatre and see the basket still there (untouched by the cleaning crew, who was just then filing in) then it was meant to be.
It was meant to be. And they were delicious.
With the new year fast approaching, and my love of fried food not abating any time soon, I know some drastic steps need to be taken. (Hypnotherapy, olfactory nerve removal, etc.)
So keep me in your thoughts as I attempt to eat more oatmeal and granola and less of the "other stuff."
And please, for goodness sake, eat all your fried food when it comes to your table.
That guy in the booth next to you, who is drooling like a toddler, will thank you.
