Foodie Two Shoes

There was a time -- before children -- when I filled the gaping hole in my soul with various and sundry things. I still have fond memories of shopping with abandon for dry clean only shirts and slacks, sky high pumps that hurt like the devil but looked glorious, and that silky, smooth luxury -- Chanel lipstick. Red, of course.

I was also first in line at any new restaurant. Could converse knowingly of the extent of their wine list and the freshness of their produce. Was that a purée or a coulée? Zabayon vs. sabayon? Had you made the mistake of asking me, I could guarantee to bore you for at least a quarter of an hour.

These days, lots of things have changed. My luxury shopping sprees have turned into mad dashes for necessities. The location has gone from Parisian to Target. Shoes are flat and rubber soled for traction. And the closest my lips have come to Chanel Red was when I chewed off the Burt's Bees lip balm waiting in line at the bank.

But perhaps nothing has changed more than my approach to food. There are literally dozens of new restaurants in town that I have never set foot in. My old favorites could have turned into Bingo parlors by now for all I know. These days I count it a victory if we are eating anything that didn't come equipped with its own toy.

As I was preparing dinner tonight, I realized that I didn't have much further to fall. Having reluctantly opened the door to recipes involving Campbell's Cream of Whatever (seriously...substitute one for the other and I dare you to tell the difference), I have begun a rapid decline into the 1950's world of convenience cooking. Tonight's recipe involved frozen broccoli, white rice, canned soup and Cheez Whiz. I shit you not. Cheez. Whiz.

Now in the spectrum of things that are not good for you, foods that contain more than one 'z' should immediately send up a red flag. When both of those z's are a product of deliberate misspelling, you should immediately run the other way.

Now here's where the crazy comes in. Because I substituted REAL cheese and FAT FREE Cream of Whatever Soup, I convinced myself that this dish was somehow healthier and more desirable as a result. Certainly not up to foodie standards, but more than pleasing to palates aged 3 years or less.

As I sit here in my Cool Mom Jeans, pleasantly sated by my mushy/yummy meal, I have no illusions that Frank Stitt will ever call looking for advice. But if he does decide to publish a cookbook for the pre-K crowd, I think I might be able to offer a tip or two.