The Sushi Haunts My Dreams

The first beams of the day's light slid through our bedroom blinds as Ridge pulled me from my fleeting slumber, his small hands pressed upon my cheeks. Ready or not, the day had begun.
"Momma, I'm hungry AGAIN," he whisper with a heavy emphasis on the last word of his declaration. Like a bear in a preparatory binge for winter's hibernation, Ridge has been on an almost never ending eating spree in the last few weeks. I know he'll sprout like corn toward the sun before too long.
"Momma, I need some sausage," he impatiently sighed. "I'm really, really hungry AGAIN."
After the boy complied to my demand for an energizing kiss, I pulled my dragging ass from bed. As soon as my feet hit the floor, nagging aches trickled from my shoulders to my toes. The night's rest provided no rejuvenation, none at all.
Since I started that marathon reproductivity campaign a few years back, this shit has taken a more regular occurrence than my much less rested years of my booty-shaking youth. Now, don't feel too sorry for me, crippled old lady that I am. Most mornings I leap from bed like a Spring chicken. Well, maybe an early Autumn chicken, if there is such a thing, but nonetheless I normally feel better than I deserve considering how I've treated my body. And when I do creek from bed like rusty old doors on a forgotten barn, I figure I did something to encourage it and just chalk it up to the rather fantastic years of beer drinking.
However, on this back-throbbing, knee-knocking morning, I knew it wasn't the good times of yesteryear that painfully plagued my quite sizable rear. Nope, that wasn't it at all.
Now, before you go suspecting Rowdy of spousal abuse and, Lord knows, it's a wonder he hasn't taken up that honored pastime yet, let me tell you that I already know the culprit of this crime. It's sushi!
Yes, you read that correctly. It is mind-numbing, almost-as-good-as-sex sushi. When I say it haunts my dreams, I mean that as literally as it can be taken. Damn that sushi, I tossed and turned all night long as visions of salmon and eel danced in my head. I envisioned ingredients from my favorite rolls merging, thus creating the Elvis or Einstein or whatever icon you happen to worship of Japanese cuisine. Sushi ran through my mind with such vibrant dominance that my body simply didn't recharge as it was suppose to. It was as though I was unsuccessfully seeking shelter from a sushi tsuanami, forceful waves of sticky rice and postachios beating against the helpless levees of my willpower. And I know I will have no peace until my taste buds are satisfied.
Because I live in a region of the country with more cows than people, as you can imagine, we are kind of in short supply of sushi-serving restaurants. Otherwise you can bet your sweet ass that I would have probably eaten $50 worth for lunch. I text messaged almost every person I know to see if they were in Oklahoma City or had any possible reason to go, hoping I could bribe them in bringing some back for me.
So, if ANY of you are going to Oklahoma City for any reason, you can overtake the loving part of my heart generally dominated by my darling children if you will just bring me the freakin' sushi. If you need something from the city, but can't go, please push your need upon me so I can have an excuse to make the journey. I mean, seriously, show your compassion -- GIVE ME THE FISH! As you know, this would typically be where I made some awesomely randy joke about the female anatomy that would make any teenage boy proud, but I just can't. My mind is too sushi-consumed to even do what comes naturally to it.
So, if you have never tried this addictive goodness, DON'T! It will take over your life like a ruthless crack habit. For those of you who have, hook a sister up. GIVE ME THE FISH!

Only in America

So, I've been trying to lose weight, which has been no easy feat considering how much I love eating and cooking and what a fantastic metabolism my husband and sons have. In order to consume waistline-friendly fare, I often end up preparing two meals. Not long ago, though, I discovered a small remedy for this conundrum -- homemade sushi. Through the magic of amazon.com, I can order nori, the seaweed wrap that serves the purpose of a Japanese tortilla. Lyndi gave me a bamboo rolling mate about a year ago and rice vinegar can be purchased at Homeland or United. Of course, sashimi-grade fish isn't readily available in Western Oklahoma. I can buy it on the internet, but it is expensive and must be used quickly. So, for those reasons, I normally stick to sushi rolls made with imitation crab meat, which is honestly pretty cost efficient.
While the sushi roll I started out making at home was a California Roll or something close to it, the need for something new has sparked my creativity. Typically I stick to the rice and crab with a touch of avocado, cream cheese and sesame seeds, but I like to randomly add new ingredients just to mix things up. I'm a rebel like that.
So, while I was strolling through the grocery store today, I spotted a bag of "Snow Pea Crisps" in the vegetable aisle. The package had a picture of snow peas. Not some snow pea mutation or a chip that was colored in the limey shade of snow peas. Now, it was very clearly a snow pea on the package. Since I've seen snow peas served at sushi restaurants, both fresh and dried, I thought this would be something nice to have on hand to add to my rolls periodically.
When I opened the bag, I quickly realized that this was not the dried snow peas I thought they where. No, these were basically chips made with a trace of snow peas. Now, don't get me wrong, these bastards were good, real good. When I pulled my oily hand from the bag, it looked as though I'd been emerging it in a finger-lickin' bucket of Kentucky Fried Chicken. Since my taste buds have always been such avid supporters of all things fried, they were pleasantly surprised at this new revelation. I flipped the bag to the label and, low and behold, 20 pieces of these processed peas scored an impressive 150 calories, 10 fat grams and 15 carbohydrates. The list of ingredients that staged the corruption of the formerly pure vegetables included corn oil and rice. Now I have no doubt that the peas, fried, salted and all, are healthier than, say, pork rinds. But is that really that comforting?
As a fat ass, I feel like I am entitled to speak for us all. And by the way, this is in no way pointing blame to anyone else for the ba-donk-a-donk I have to lure into my jeans. After I read the label of doom, I feed the snow peas to my quite thankful border collie. He gave the mouth-watering snack high marks. With that said, I'm quite certain this new delicacy isn't something you'd find in a grocery store anywhere else in the world. If you did, it would definitely be stocked with the junk food and would probably only be there in the first place because some American had moved to town.
So, for all you lazy readers, the ones who would've probably thought the unexpected tastiness to have been caused by magic, we are now deep-frying snow peas and serving them up as healthy treats. Only in America, right?