Confessions of a Local Eater


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For those Buffy the Vampire Slayer TV series fans out there: remember when Willow raises Buffy from the dead in season six and a scary demon starts possessing the Scoobies, making them do scary stuff, like Anya cuts herself and Dawn breathes fire? At first they think this demon is a hitchhiker who caught a ride from some hell dimension on Buffy’s way back to life. But then Willow realizes that the demon was actually created when she did the spell to bring Buffy back; she says it’s like the universe doesn’t give anything away for free: Willow did a spell to get what they wanted but the universe says they have to take the demon too — a byproduct of sorts.

Well… I’m starting to think my decision to eat only local food has caused an unexpected demon byproduct to possess me too, leading me to engage in more depraved food choices than I otherwise would have made in my former life.

I have some confessions to make.

On Wednesday I ate a bag of Twizzlers when I went to see Wall-E at the Westbank movie theater. I don’t know if it was the suspense over what was going to happen to that cute little robot, the guilt over breaking my oath, or that perhaps my body was already starting to adjust to the absence of high fructose corn syrup, but during the second half of what I like to call an occasional “complimentary” double feature, a sneak screening of Hancock if you will, I went to the bathroom and totally barfed. And not like a little bit, but rather, the screaming projectile kind. I’m just glad no one was in there.

Also, on Saturday I ate a chicken sandwich from Raising Cane’s. After doing some shopping that morning at Target I suddenly felt super dizzy and was afraid to drive home over the bridge without eating something first. Ugh that bridge. Every time I drive on it, it rains. I swear. I think I went overboard on the local coffee before I left the house. Caffeine jitters. As you might imagine, options for local food in a hurry were limited.

I had only had Cane’s once in my entire life prior to this; what possessed me to go through the drive thru and eat an entire sandwich bigger than my whole face is a mystery to me. I think it’s the demon. I imagine that all the fat cells and the remaining simple sugars in my body have banded together to form a cruel monster inside me whose power grows every time I feed it something from a concentrated animal feeding operation or any other “food-like substance,” as Michael Pollan likes to call the chemically altered products that comprise a majority of the American diet these days.

Lately I’ve been having perverse fantasies of going to places like Bud’s Broiler and mowing down on burgers and onion rings, or eating Kraft Macaroni and Cheese mixed with cut-up hotdogs and ketchup. That’s right, I said ketchup.

But the pure, local spirit inside me is fighting the good fight too, largely by making me so nauseated whenever I eat something bad that I throw up. Although, technically after the chicken sandwich I only dry heaved.

These past few days have been rough, but I’m not giving up yet.


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