Here's a humor piece I wrote a few weeks ago; it is meant to be a parody of the kind of over-the-top food/travel writing I read (and sometimes have to edit). I had hoped McSweeney's might want it, but they said they're getting too much pandemic-related submissions. So you can read it right here instead!
Travel and Food Diary: April 2020
—1—
Over cocktails, a man who claimed to be a native of this dwelling for decades told me about an area at the very eastern tip. Called simply “the pantry,” it was known to be a hangout of sorts for the 18- to 23-year-olds in the region. I set off with only a few vague directions, but plenty of determination. “The pantry” turned out to be easy to find—but just as easy to overlook. A ten-foot-long passageway, it was so narrow that I breathed a sigh of relief to find myself alone there, as two people would not even be able to pass one another. Surveying my surroundings, I noted wall-to-wall cabinets and drawers, all alike. But I knew why I was here: The bottom drawer on the left was rumored to be the snack capital of the region. I took in a deep breath, grasped the metal handle, and pulled open the large, deep drawer. I was rewarded with a vision of snack heaven, a riot of colorful packages, some gaping half open and other carefully closed with a chip-clip. I spied Flavor-Blasted Goldfish, blue corn tortilla chips, Pirate’s Booty, Cheez-Its, and every manner of Kettle potato chips—jalapeño, sea salt and vinegar, and the ever-elusive honey Dijon. I selected Cape Cod 40% reduced-fat potato chips and headed back to my encampment, happily munching with the satisfaction of yet another successful expedition under my belt.
—2—
I did not want to go to the fridge. It is Cape Cod in the summertime, Fort Lauderdale in the wintertime—crowded, noisy, no surprises. But it was already well past noon and there were no other options for lunch in this remote outpost. I reminded myself that an adventure can be had in the unlikeliest of places, and set out. I was not disappointed. Upon flinging open the double doors of the stainless-steel behemoth, I was greeted by a beautiful cacophony of sights and smells. Who knew that there was still a take-out box half-filled with lo mein? One last yogurt cup? An unidentifiable but still fresh-smelling pasta mélange of some sort? My startled eyes took in all this and more—nearly half a rotisserie chicken, four (!) types of cheese, and even a few spoonfuls of roasted red pepper hummus. This would be no ordinary lunch. I began to work.
—3—
My guide is several feet ahead of me and moving too fast, seemingly deaf to my ever-more-alarmed requests to slow down. It’s dark, and I am in unfamiliar territory. As I make my way through the detritus of the so-called “basement playroom,” I am grateful that I had thought to pack my L.L. Bean slippers for this trip—I don’t want to think about what I might be stepping on with bare feet. Up ahead, I glimpse my guide taking a sudden turn through a partially hidden doorway—this is not marked on any map, and for a moment I question the entire excursion. But I press on. In the next instant, two things happen, virtually simultaneously: My destination comes into view, and my guide vanishes. I have no choice but to continue on. Stepping carefully, I reach my terminus, a 1993-era Amana deep freeze. It is exactly as described by local storytellers—tall, snow-white, impassive. Screwing up all my courage, I yank open the vacuum-sealed door and am temporarily blinded by an arctic mist. As my eyes adjust, I see treasures beyond imagination—fully formed burger patties, microwavable pouches of rice, turkey stock made the day after Thanksgiving. And—could it be?—a familiar face! Indeed, there’s Paul Newman, grinning at me from a box of uncured pepperoni pizza. (I pay homage with my finger to the side of my nose à la “The Sting.”) Not a second later, I hear a heart-stopping growl, a deep rumbling from the depths of the freezer. My naturally quick reflexes leap into action, as I deftly catch a torn bag of everything bagels that had gotten dislodged when the door opened. A shower of seeds of every type, each enclosed in a tiny ice capsule, falls silently to the ground. I replace the bag, and remember to exhale. I had dismissed as apocryphal the stories of an unfamiliar cut of pork, received nearly a decade earlier from a meat CSA, that was simply stashed in the depths of the deep freeze. Could it be true? I may never know, but there is a large, ungainly package, unlabeled, on the bottom shelf, thick with rime. I decide to leave it for a future explorer, one more intrepid than I. Digging through the frost-coated bounty, I at last unearth what I had come for: a delicacy known to locals simply as “that Chinese chicken thing from Trader Joe’s.” I carefully remove it, close the heavy door, and turn to leave. At that moment, my guide reappears in the gloom, gives a big stretch, then meows and curls up for a nap in the only sunny spot in the basement. I am on my own for the trek back. Holding my prize aloft, I retrace my steps back to the darkened stairwell, where my adventure began.
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