HAPPY MEAL

I like to think that I have a pretty discerning palate. It’s in training, yes, but I can by this point appreciate the finer things in life: foie gras, caviar, truffles… When I cook I always do so from scratch – no bottled marinades or microwave meals that came out of the box, thank you. On occasion I have been known to even make the bread needed to make French toast. So why, I wonder, is it that when I travel – be it a four-hour road trip to a nearby city or par avion across the big blue ocean – I turn into a disgusting pig? No, seriously. I see a Wendy’s, McDonald’s, or Burger King and my brain short-circuits. Especially, at breakfast…I can almost smell the hash browns and the Egg McMuffin with sausage and cheese.

Alas, I am afflicted with acid reflux, otherwise known as The Disease from Hell, and even two tater tots from BK will make what should be a happy meal into a very uncomfortable experience. For the next few hours after consumption of the grease-laden goodies, I will grip my sides, rock back and forth in my chair, and groan, the sounds very similar to the croaking of a toad.

I’m writing just as I ready to go on a few days’ vacation. I am telling myself that I will pop my daily Prilosec, eat a sensible breakfast at home, and walk straight past the airport food court tomorrow morning. May the force be with me!

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