Does cooking at home mean that I have to cook?

Strange that you should ask that since just yesterday after my workout at the Y, I was dealing with that question in my usual way.  I was hungry for bacon and eggs and home fries with sourdough toast.  And in the short time it takes to ride to the corner where I turn left to head home or right to go down into town, I must have had a thousand thoughts about what to do about this bit of irrationality.  If I went home I could have the eggs and potatoes sans the grease of the bacon because at home I don’t cook meat anymore.  It takes about 10 minutes to boil several of the small red irish potatoes I like.  I could shower while they cook.  Then I could scramble the eggs whites in skim milk, dice up a mushroom, slice the potatoes and finish it all off together in one frying pan.  If I wanted bread, I could toast up a slice of whole wheat and I’d be set.

On the other hand, down town I get to sit at the counter and watch while one of several really good cooks fried up my eggs and grilled my potatoes with green peppers and onions.  I get some of the local news from either B or his wife, C.  Or maybe hear about what I’d missed on the surf line this morning ‘cuz I’d chose the Y instead of the sea.  And the bacon they serve is the best, fried just crisp, and lean yet thick enough to chew.  Man oh man, what a choice.

So left and up the hill to the crest, I get to cook and I’d probably get on the computer.  Right and I’m with friends I’ve known for 20 years and someone else is serving up the cholesterol.  Damn. 

What decides this twin horned dilemma is the sight of the ocean stretching blue to the horizon.  I can hardly ever resist its pull and I know if I go that way I can hit the beach for a walk and talk with the waves after I eat.  So right it is but even as I pump my pedals my mind is already thinking that my body still doesn’t need the calories so I end up across the street from my original destination at another counter where one of the specialties is Irish Oatmeal with raisins and brown sugar and milk.  Which I order and then proceed to eat while watching some old guy in denial douse his sausage and eggs with enough salt to cure a hide.

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