Lori Clinch

Are We There Yet?

Cover it with ketchup and call it delectable

I have a metabolism that runs as fast as a stream of molasses on a cold day in January.

The smell of fresh baked cookies adds inches to my waist. The mere sight of bread has me bulging out of my jeans and Lord knows that if I so much as gander at a pile of fries, my thighs will double in size faster than you can say, "chunky cheese."

Therefore, my meals are generally limited to a meal replacement bar or anything that will sustain me until an actual entrée comes along.

That being said, a real meal is a treat. I don't consider the cost so much as taste and atmosphere. When we eat out, I opt for a lovely little restaurant with a pleasant staff, large drinking vessels and a monster of a salad that fills me up, slims me down and sends me out the door feeling like I've actually been fed.

My husband, on the other hand, goes strictly for the price. His idea of a good meal is anything that sells 10 for a dollar. For a man who burns more calories while he's sleeping than I can on a treadmill with weights, any food is good food just so long as it's cheap. Life is easier for an individual who can cover a bad entrée with ketchup and call it delectable.

Take last week, for instance, when my beloved spouse and I were waiting around in another town for our children's basketball game. As hunger crept upon me, my thoughts went to low-calorie tortilla wraps, light and colorful vegetable medleys and my ever-loving favorite - the large and fun-filled salad.

"Where shall we eat?" I asked as we drove past my favorite whole-wheat-and-double-the-alfalfa-sprouts diner.

"Somewhere cheap," he responded in his "Put a little gravy on it and I'll eat it" voice.

"But I don't want to eat cheap," I whined in my best and pouty tone. "I want taste, I want atmosphere, and I want a salad that doesn't come in a plastic container that was prepared on an assembly line in Texas."

I think when he pulled into the Pokey and Smokey Diner and Inn he felt we were compromising. He anticipated that he could get some cheap chow and a good cup of coffee while treating me to a meal that hadn't been wrapped in paper and kept under heat lamps.

I have long suspected that Pat is drawn to these places by the filth. For him, filthy equals a bargain. Like a gambler in Vegas who looks for a craps table with one cute chick and a man in a hat; my husband determines that the food must be to die for if he sees a toothless man smoking a cigarette at the counter, a hole in the tile and a gum-smacking hostess who likes to call everyone "Honey."

When we walked in, I was sulking like a little boy going to clean the john. Although I handled myself with an ounce of decorum, my inner person was stomping and crying and throwing her fists in the air. "Oh, look!" I said as I took in the décor, "there's a Velvet Elvis! Now, that's a good sign."

But Pat wasn't listening. He was smiling at the other patrons and working the crowd as he danced his way to the plastic booth.

Imagine his surprise when he realized that they wanted $7.49 for a sandwich. Picture his dismay when he saw that breakfast was NOT served all day, that gravy was considered an extra side, and that the "Good Ole Cup of Coffee" that he had so longed for was going to run him an astounding buck ninety-five.

To add insult to injury, our server brought me a salad in a little sauce bowl that one would have chosen to house the dressing.

So while I did my darndest to stifle a full-blown fit, Pat maintained a poker face. While I ate my salad in two forkfuls and positioned my starving body so I could best glare in his direction, he pretended to enjoy his luncheon special as he smothered it with ketchup.

Upon our departure, Pat scored a free newspaper and told me that we should add the Pokey and Smokey Diner and Inn onto our list of favorites.

At least it won't take me a week on the treadmill with weights to work off their little salad.

Lori Clinch is the mother of four sons and the author of the book "Are We There Yet?" You can reach her at www.loriclinch.com.