Cheese in a Jar

Came home late from a thing last night. Had no money for the babysitter, had to stop at Albertson's. This would kill two birds: ATM for the moolah, snacks for the munchies. Walked in the store and I swear a Hallelujah chorus accompanied the woosh of the automatic doors. There, before my eyes, was a pyramid of Lays potato chips next to a smaller pyramid of cheese in jars.

I had my initial doubts. I mean, I don't think I've ever bought cheese in a jar. How healthy could it be? Since it's stored at room temperature, it can't really be considered dairy, can it? I figured it was probably an amalgam of plasticine and botulism and yellow food dye #33. I decided to check the label to see what's in it. At least look at the calorie count. I picked up the jar, and could only allow myself a quick glance. So quick, I can't even tell you the brand name. I did, however, make out the word medium, ostensibly referring to its spiciness. (I doubt it had anything to do with the jar size or the cheese's clairvoyant abilities.) A surge of nervousness passed through me. Was I really going to do this? Buy fake medium cheese? Without anymore thought, I grabbed jar and bag, threw money at the cashier, and scurried home.

Only after the babysitter left, and with Michael ensconced in the other room, did I feel safe. I opened the cheese jar lid. Thwock! Intoxicating. I thought, "This could be a perfect night." Chips, jar of cheese, little bit of TV. I hunkered down in the ripped leather chair, grappled once again with my love/hate relationship with Big Love (see previous entry for significance) and snuck-ate chips and cheese, so I wouldn't have to share with Michael.

There are no words to describe the golden, creamy, jalapenoey goodness that is jar of cheese. Didn't matter that Lays is not the best dipping chip, I had never tasted such manna in my life. Before I knew it, the entire jar of cheese and half the bag of chips were gone. GONE. I must have had an out of body experience because I swear, I only remember enjoying seven or eight chips. Forty-nine tops.

Michael entered the TV room. "What are you eating?" I showed him the empty jar. He looked at me with the same incredulity had I announced I was going to uproot the family, buy me some hogs and harvest truffles in Tasmania. I felt a great shame. Phoney baloney cheese and chips of chips coated my hands, mouth and chin. At this rate, I'll be one of those Neanderthals wearing a stained wife beater and drinking a 40, while reclining in a corduroy Barcalounger.

Today, I'm paying for my jar of cheese binging. It feels like there's a fossilized radial tire in my gut. It's solid and implacable. Why can't I eat like I did in my younger days? There was this place in New York, Potbelly's, and I would go there often for their fries. They served it with either melted cheese or gravy on the side. I'd get both and call it lunch. I wouldn't gain an ounce and my body wouldn't go into toxic shock. But today, I might just possibly have to get over my fear of colonics.

I mourn that I can't eat a load of crap anymore!

The other day, my son said, "I don't like cheese pizza!" That's a terrifying thing for the parent of a finicky boy to hear. There are only so many things Sebastian will eat without fail. Chicken legs. Chinese ribs. Bread spread with Nutella. And up till now, cheese pizza.

Bash wasn't always this choosy. Quite the opposite. In fact I took great pride that I could get him to eat salmon and brussel sprouts with gusto. And I would derisively tsk the other mothers who would give their children Capt'n Crunch to snack on in the park. But my son's habits changed around the time I found him eating out of the dog bowl. He got more basic with his tastes: cereal no milk, pasta no sauce, pancakes no syrup. Then Sebastian refused to eat dinner all together. I'd threaten with, "Well, you're just going to have to go to bed hungry." But he'd hold strong. I'd finally let him be excused and next thing I knew he'd be on his hands and knees sneaking kibble. From that moment on, no green, no fish, no tofu. I can only hope he's somehow leaching vitamins and nutrients from chocolate croissants.

What if he doesn't like chicken tomorrow? And what if ribs are eighty-sixed as well? I'm afraid if I don't take some sort of drastic measure his entire diet will be in the hands of Purina.

Irony is a bitch. My son doesn't like cheese pizza, grilled cheese sandwiches, macaroni and cheese. (Now, that's fucked up. What kid doesn't like mac and cheese?) And yet, these are the very items I want to be scarfing down all day long. Even with bloated belly, I'm still obsessing over cheese in a jar.

I had to go to Albertson's this morning for some light shopping. I was nervous. Would the yellow jar be there as the doors open? Taunting me? Woosh. No chips. No jars of cheese. Now it's a pyramid of Pepsi, and I don't like Pepsi. Safe for now.