My Grub

I eat, therefore I am, and what I am not, or refuse to be, is a chemistry experiment.

In recent weeks, food labels have become my latest source of morbid fascination; the production of the modern factory food requires, it seems, a Ph.D.  Who knew polysorbate 80 was necessary to make beef jerky?  My grandmother used to just dry beef strips out in the sun.  Also, to go from yogurt that's awfully plain to yummily vanilla-flavored is to add nine(!) different ingredients.  I suffer each and every morning I eat plain, but at least I won't have to metabolize malic acid and potassium sorbate.  Does my body even appreciate the kinds of sacrifices I'm doing for its sake?  One can only hope.

I am not anally vegetarian, although I certainly can't remember the last time I had meat.  I used to count the number of days I went off meat, but I have long since given up.  If you must insist that I belong to a category, you will find me among wholefoodores, exotic species that eat the least-processed food available.  Indeed, when presented some time ago with a stark choice between a beef-barbecue sandwich and canned vegetable soup, I picked the sandwich, despite my earnest, on-going flirtation with vegetables.

Now, if I could only break my addiction to Coke Zero, that would be great.

----tear here----

A random experiment with a new point-and-shoot:

 
This is the Menil Collection, a small museum of modern art and other artifacts collected by some very rich folks.  It is, quite literally, in my backyard.