A scary venture into the world of fast food

We don’t do fast food. Essentially, it’s an ideological issue. Fast food is, for the most part, a horror that I’ve railed against for many years. Even those who indulge in greasy, factory-farmed beef burgers and deep fried, hormone laden chicken (or pink slime) acknowledge that they’re not there for the nutrition.

Fast food is convenient. And in theory, it’s cheap. But if you look too closely at what you’re actually getting, you’d realize that it’s not so much food, as it is processed food products that have been provided to you at a tremendous cost to the animals that are sacrificed, the earth that suffers from its production and finally, the consumer. In the end, that cost is passed on to us in rising healthcare fees, global warming acceleration and so on.

These are the things I think as I drive past the long line of cars, waiting at whichever drive-through I happen to be passing during mealtime. It’s tough to be inside my head.

It’s also tough to be a member of my family when I’ve been out of the house for 10 hours and Brian’s been out for 12. I’d put no thought into dinner and the masses were starving, grumpy and eying me with an accusatory look that made me feel twitchy.

I had some left-over lentil soup. Actually, I had a huge vat of lentil soup, enough to feed an army of a small country, and maybe some of their prisoners of war. It was a delicious soup, cooked slowly over low heat with organic vegetables, stock, lentils and pastured ham hocks, until the meat fell right off the bone. The beans and vegetables were then blended smooth and the meat chopped well. Finally, the two were combined to make a mouthwatering dinner.

Mouthwatering as long as you were blind. Because if you had the gift of sight, you would have thought that a small child had vomited a combination of dirty sewer water, henna and dog food into the pot. When my son walked in from basketball practice the night that I had originally served it, he looked at it and burst out laughing.

“What happened?”

“To what?”

“To the dinner.”

I just looked at him. The smile slowly faded as comprehension hit.

“Oh. It’s supposed to look like that. I thought it was a mistake.”

I swear, it tasted awesome. In hindsight, I see why the recipe did not call for the pureeing part. But I always puree lentil soup. Going forward, I may reexamine that policy.

Needless to say, if we get back to the not-home-all-day-no-dinner-in-sight-grumpy-people, no one was super excited about reheating the lentil vomit and there wasn’t enough left-over anything else to constitute dinner for a family of four.

I was weak. My kids were breaking down like three year olds at Disney World, waiting on a two hour line for Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride, an hour after an extra large cotton candy and ten hours into a 95 degree day. I looked up from the bowels of hell and ordered my equally weary husband to go out and not come back without some form of nourishment. I didn’t care if he killed and skinned the raccoon that’s been knocking over my trash- leaving me to pick dirty tissues up from the middle of the road at 7 a.m. – as long as he was bringing it to the table without my help and ready to eat.

He rejected the raccoon idea and instead stumbled upon the newly opened Moe’s eatery. We condone this fast food as the beef is grass fed, the pork is pastured and the chicken is free range and antibiotic free. I’m sure it’s not all sunshine and roses, but just let me have this one, ok?

The wee one accompanied her father on this unusual trip into the world of fast food. Apparently, the lack of familiarity with this type of establishment left her feeling shocked and awed. She arrived home in a tizzy.

“There’s just bins and bins of stuff and you tell them what you want, and they make it right there! Whatever you ask for! They had beans and chicken and cheese and even bacon! You can have bacon on your tacos, Mom!”

I think she might be a little sheltered. She’s never stepped foot through the golden arches and the only Wendy she knows is her aunt. Though I take pride in the food I put on the table, and we are limited by her celiac diagnosis, I worry that one day, like her brother, she will rebel. I picture her lying amidst a pile of grease slicked wrappers, pink slime heavy on her breath, in a trans fat-induced coma.

I’m not too worried about the boy’s rebellion. It won’t last. His body rejects too much junk. Just recently, he was given food colored root beer floats and powdery, fake buttered popcorn, which he quickly devoured and just as quickly vomited back up. His mind may be telling him it’s okay to eat hideous foods, but I have trained his body to only accept whole foods. He hates me for it, but everyone needs something to complain to the therapist about. He’ll have plenty of material.

Both kids can start with that lentil soup. It was frightening to behold. I’m sharing the recipe anyway. It was delicious and I’m thinking that as long as you follow the recipe – crazy, I know – and skip the pureeing, you’ll be glad you made it. I’m not sure why I thought I knew more then Emeril Lagasse. Lesson learned.

Ingredients

2 tablespoons olive oil
2 cups small diced onions
1 cup small diced celery
1 cup small diced carrots
Salt
Freshly ground black pepper
2 tablespoons chopped garlic
2 bay leaves
6 sprigs of fresh thyme
2 quarts chicken stock
3 to 4 smoked ham hocks
1 pound orange lentils
2 tablespoons chopped parsley

Directions
In a large saucepan, over medium heat, add the oil. When the oil is hot, add the onions, celery, and carrots. Season with salt and pepper. Saute for 4 minutes. Add the garlic, bay leaves and thyme. Saute for 1 minute. Add the ham hocks and stock. Bring the liquid to a boil, reduce the heat to medium-low and cook about 1 hour, or until the hocks are tender. Add the lentils and continue cook for 25 to 30 minutes or until the lentils are tender. Remove from the heat and stir in the parsley. Reseason with salt and pepper if needed. Remove the ham hocks and remove the meat. Add the ham back into the soup. Ladle the soup into individual serving bowls and serve with crusty bread.

We skipped the parsley. It seemed pretentious. Just kidding. I didn’t have any. Share your delicious, but fugly, recipes with me, please. I enjoy making my family uneasy.