Lentils, or Why We Can’t Have Nice Things.
Dear Lentils,
I get it.
You’re nutritious and packed with protein. You cost like two bucks a silo. You keep forfucking ever. You’re like Nature’s Perfect Food, except for one, small, niggling detail: You taste like a road accident. Not a drive-by, minor-injuries, share insurance cards and get on our way accident either, but one of those haunting ones that lingers, like when a school bus with a drunken driver shoots over a median and into a hearse which stopped to let by a family of baby ducks. Such an awful, sad, waste which didn’t have to happen if people would only have made better choices.
The color of sludge and the texture of recently moulted beetle casings, you lentils are nevertheless pushed on us regularly as a universal good, as if donuts and chocolate and macadamia nuts never existed. As if the only purpose food served was to nourish, with no regard for aesthetics or deliciousness at all. That’s why all the great paintings since the dawn of time are streaky black squares of canvas that smell like poo and all great music was written for the kazoo and that thing where you wrap wax paper around a comb.* I can guarantee you that whatever that goop was they were eating in the Matrix, it had a non-negative lentil quotient. But at least that crap was fictional.
You’re in all sorts of stuff I like, so I eat you because you’re too small to triage, but be aware: I still hate you.
1/10. The day it turns out you also cure cancer, I’ll slit my wrists.
*yes! that was sarcasm!
image via Justinc on wikipedia
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