Some people say you shouldn’t add anything you can’t spell to your body. I’m not sure exactly how they said that while constantly reminding themselves of pyruvate dehydrogenase, adenosine triphosphate, and the presumably hypnotically-induced mantra of “adenine-guanine-cytosine-adenine-thymine” they must constantly incant to make sure they don’t forget a bit, causing their cells to disappear or die because of their anti-magical* thinking. But they still said it, which is why I offer to help with my incredible 100% Chemical-Free Raw Natural Diet.
*anti-magical: deliberately NOT using complicated words they don’t understand, in order to reduce their own abilities BELOW standard.
Realizing that my wife’s qualifications and initials made her “Dr X” was one of the greatest moments of my life. Since then I haven’t just been a writer, I’ve been the “Husband of Dr X!”, or even the “Genderbent Bride of Dr X”, because adding adjectives is a core principle of “Describe your own life as pulp science fiction”-fu. And “describe your own life as pulp science-fiction”-fu electro-zaps the toxic waste out of any other motivational strategy you can be bothered to mention. And there’s real X-rated action in how she’s enslaved me with her mastery of flesh.
They say that the way to someone’s heart is through their stomach. Dr X knows that’s a pathetic underachievement. She seized my stomach’s supply lines and used them to replace my every organ with agents loyal to her commands. She’s been in charge of my food for ten years, which means that almost every cell has been rebuilt and restaffed under her exquisite instructions. (Sure, some of the neurons haven’t replaced, but I don’t see my brain squidging very far without the rest of the body).
She’s always loved food, and the great thing about a doctor in molecular genetics is that even the most complicated recipe is but the simplest lab protocol. Most menus don’t require twenty-page procedures of acronyms or radiation treatments. Even molecular gastronomy hasn’t gone quite that far (although it’s only a matter of time until radioactive roasting replaces Fugu fish as the “I can eat this specifically because I shouldn’t” silliness).
Don’t worry about any stereotypes. This isn’t the woman doing the dinner because she should, this is the high priest bringing us the divine because only she is qualified to do so, and in return the mundane are happy to clean the cathedral, and the dishes, and take care of the laundry and clean the litterboxes and do everything else. Because food achieves everything religion ever claimed: it gives me purpose in this world, it gives me strength to do what is right, it restores my spirits when nothing else can, and it tells me exactly who to obey and makes me happy to do so.
Last week I spent ten minutes in the supermarket learning that in Britain arugula is called “rocket”. Which is an incredibly vigorous name for a vegetable which, while quite nice, does still look and taste like a weed which has only been let into our food on its best behaviour. Since then I’ve been upgrading fruits and vegetables with much more exciting names.
- Broccoli: Fractalgreen
- Tomatoes: Shirtbleeders
- Strawberries: Bitenipples
- Cucumber: Youcummer
- Carrot: Questionable PhD Elevator
- Pomegranate: Tasteshrapnel
- Kiwis: Tastytestes
- Pineapple: Sunweight
- Olives: Suncoal
- Asparagus: Crunchspear
- Courgette: Notcumber