The Dragon I chase

 

The table abounds with rich buttery, flaky pastries. Slices of deep dish Sicilian pizza, loaves and loaves of French bread, warm from the oven and with a crust, the perfect marriage of crispy and tough, all surrounded with the finniest of linens and the very best of condiments and compliments.

This is what the food critics see. This is what my friends crave, as they swoop in for a taste.

As I stand back, as I look upon the scene, I see mountains of rat poison, pies of arsenic, and salads of hemlock. I see the monkey on my back. I see the dragon, which I both run from and am compelled to visit three times a day, at least.

I chase the dragon, I roll the dice and I hope, oh how I hope that today, the labels will be truthful and the cooks honest.

For the bounty of the earth has been much twisted in our modern go, go, go society, until the lines of nature and invention hopelessly blur. Quick cook, quick frozen, quick, look, efficient recipes and faux sugar offerings wait at every turn and occupy the shelves in every kitchen. The extra sweet, fake sugary tastes, thought to be better and yet bad, eating a whole in the guts of the nation.

For me, for me I lament, it is the gluten, or rather the bread cement. The crunchy corn and the rich barley malts, those be the fruits of the earth, which transform my stomach into a righteous tumult. The rich creamy dreamy milk of the cow, often the worst offender by far, and yet so natural somehow, a white insidious poison, I wonder who is laughing now?

Every day, it is a tight rope act, will today be the day that a bit of poison slips past my watchful eyes. For each day I must feed the ravenous body, for it needs fuel to take me where I want to go. I must brave the dragon’s watchful stare, how it tries to lure me into its lair. For no longer am I tempted, my resolve, to protect myself with armor thick, is cemented in my mind. The dragon’s tricks, I know now, I have stolen his element of surprise. Until my smugness, be overtaken in a fit of distraction, and then, the dragon and his friends, tie me in knots again.

Once it was the monkey, who would whisper, just a taste, surly just one bite, but as my body healed and I felt healthy and strong, it was so easy to tell the monkey to be gone. But the dragon, he is smart; he waits and creeps, like the insidious beast he is and when you least expect a flash of fire, you are singed before you know it. The dragon has an army of agents, to assist in his stalking of the unsuspecting. Loose rules and ever changing supply chain. Unclear labeling and dirty kitchen surfaces his weapons of choice.

Some days I fantasize about slaying this beast. How can I avoid his plans and schemes? Could I go without his poison vehicles of choice for days? Can I shake the monkey off my back? Can I win the race? Can I stay one step ahead of the beast, hell bent for leather, to make a feast upon my misery.

There are no twelve steps for my fear or my loathed addictions. I must eat to survive and yet each bite is an optional poisoning. At every meal, I am left to wonder. When will the dragon turn and strike again, for he is both my source of sustenance and my jailor. I chase him for my daily fix and yet, I dream of a day when perhaps, I could simply exist without his riches. For I have striped myself bare to the bones, and yet he manages to sneak in manna when I least expect it. For my battle is to fight my fear, brave the landscape and avoid him and his plots at every turn.

So I soldier on, singed and slightly burned, to battle again on the morrow, for I cannot live without the dragon and cannot totally find a lasting peace with him in my world.

 

You can go to Elisa Phillips' blog at: http://elisa111.vox.com/