It is a question that has plagued midnights through the ages.
When eyes are are bleary from hours in front of a screen (whether monitor or television). When the mind is content but the body wants more. When creativity is at its peak, and you feel nothing can stop you from tasting the fruits of your endeavour, you find yourself asking the inevitable.......”Where's the Mayo?”
So you had a snack at 7. You know you should not have, but those potato chips looked just so darn appetizing. Every neuron in your brain warns you against it. “Dinner time is appoaching” they say. But your hand moves on its own, it just wants one....just to taste....get the grime of the day out of your mouth, and maybe one more...oh you cant stop at two....
It takes exactly a third of a bag for the taste in your mouth to change from savoury saltiness to metallic guilt. That last crunch always coincides with the clock striking 7.45. Now you have less than an hour to go, and you can hear noises from the kitchen. You wonder if the spoons and forks so hated their time apart in their respective containers, that they need to have a banging good time. The plates just cannot wait to pile on top of each other. .
You look down at the bag in your hand. You wipe the other one on you trousers and try and remember if your mom is in a good mood. You hope she wasnt. At least then she didnt slave too hard over the stove. Nothing to feel guilty about, ....maybe one more......
We then skip forward in time to the screen. No other sendentary activity consumes as much energy as your eyes staring at a screen . Mankind blinks every 5 seconds, but perhaps the glare increases the frequency. Yes, that is where the calories went. You watch your calories by watching a screen. Of course guilt is directly proportional to calories. So a snack seems more of a reward than an indulgence.
There is only one stop for the beast. The fridge door opens, you look around, you exit with a sandwich. The rest of the kitchen sits as a dark mystery. You dont want to turn on the lights. Im sure the spoons and forks need their rest. One of the plates looses out, but we all need to make sacrifices for the greater good.
Now a midnight sandwich is a special animal. It has no class, no taste, no theme. It is akin to that loose t-shirt and faded jeans combo that you have worn since you were able to shave (irrespective of whether you are a man or a woman). It is there for comfort and not aesthetics. It is never discussed outside your house, except in sagely yet humourous prose with subtle philosophical contexts.
The contents of the sandwich are chosen by logical elimination. Only if you can answer in the affirmative to any of the following , are they laid on the sacred bread:
1)Is it cheese?
2)Can it be spread or sprinkled?
3)Is it safe to eat though i think its been here since last august?
4)Is it edible?
Once you have slapped, spread and sprinkled everything together, you then leave the spoons to their forks and you exit to the safety of your room. Ease of picking up the sandwich depends on the proportion of sprinkles versus spreads. You lick your fingers first, hoping it will give you an idea of the future. You eye it one last time, and then you bite, which always leads to the inevitable.
“Needs mayo”.
When eyes are are bleary from hours in front of a screen (whether monitor or television). When the mind is content but the body wants more. When creativity is at its peak, and you feel nothing can stop you from tasting the fruits of your endeavour, you find yourself asking the inevitable.......”Where's the Mayo?”
So you had a snack at 7. You know you should not have, but those potato chips looked just so darn appetizing. Every neuron in your brain warns you against it. “Dinner time is appoaching” they say. But your hand moves on its own, it just wants one....just to taste....get the grime of the day out of your mouth, and maybe one more...oh you cant stop at two....
It takes exactly a third of a bag for the taste in your mouth to change from savoury saltiness to metallic guilt. That last crunch always coincides with the clock striking 7.45. Now you have less than an hour to go, and you can hear noises from the kitchen. You wonder if the spoons and forks so hated their time apart in their respective containers, that they need to have a banging good time. The plates just cannot wait to pile on top of each other. .
You look down at the bag in your hand. You wipe the other one on you trousers and try and remember if your mom is in a good mood. You hope she wasnt. At least then she didnt slave too hard over the stove. Nothing to feel guilty about, ....maybe one more......
We then skip forward in time to the screen. No other sendentary activity consumes as much energy as your eyes staring at a screen . Mankind blinks every 5 seconds, but perhaps the glare increases the frequency. Yes, that is where the calories went. You watch your calories by watching a screen. Of course guilt is directly proportional to calories. So a snack seems more of a reward than an indulgence.
There is only one stop for the beast. The fridge door opens, you look around, you exit with a sandwich. The rest of the kitchen sits as a dark mystery. You dont want to turn on the lights. Im sure the spoons and forks need their rest. One of the plates looses out, but we all need to make sacrifices for the greater good.
Now a midnight sandwich is a special animal. It has no class, no taste, no theme. It is akin to that loose t-shirt and faded jeans combo that you have worn since you were able to shave (irrespective of whether you are a man or a woman). It is there for comfort and not aesthetics. It is never discussed outside your house, except in sagely yet humourous prose with subtle philosophical contexts.
The contents of the sandwich are chosen by logical elimination. Only if you can answer in the affirmative to any of the following , are they laid on the sacred bread:
1)Is it cheese?
2)Can it be spread or sprinkled?
3)Is it safe to eat though i think its been here since last august?
4)Is it edible?
Once you have slapped, spread and sprinkled everything together, you then leave the spoons to their forks and you exit to the safety of your room. Ease of picking up the sandwich depends on the proportion of sprinkles versus spreads. You lick your fingers first, hoping it will give you an idea of the future. You eye it one last time, and then you bite, which always leads to the inevitable.
“Needs mayo”.
