My stomach and I converse fairly regularly. We have a good rapport, and I would rate our communication at about an 8/10. That being said, my stomach does not often issue direct commands, so I am apt to listen when it does.
Call it the mystery of Twelfth Night, but this evening, my stomach decided that it was time for a chat. The conversation was somewhat similar to the iPhone4 vs. HTC parody* on YouTube. *contains profanity
Stomach: I want a steak. Where is the steak?
Me: Well, that’s a bit unusual. We don’t eat red meat all that often.
Stomach: I don’t care. I want a steak.
Me: We have a lasagna in the freezer.
Stomach: Is that a steak?
Me: Well, no.
Stomach: If it’s not a steak, why would I want it?
Me: But steak is kind of expensive.
Stomach: I don’t care.
Me: How about fish? Fish has almost as much iron, if that’s what you’re craving.
Stomach: I don’t care.
Me: But fish is better for you.
Stomach: I don’t care.
Me: This is a drugstore. They don’t even have steak.
Stomach: I want a steak. Will you get me a New York Strip?
Me: But…I was thinking about a salad.
Stomach: I don’t care. I want a steak. With onions. And garlic sauce.
…
…
Sometimes, you just learn when to give in. Ergo, tonight’s dinner menu: marinated steak, roasted onions and brussels sprouts, salad, and RayLen Vineyards’ 2008 Eagle’s Select.
Happy Twelfth Night!
If music be the food of love, play on;
Give me excess of it, that, surfeiting,
The appetite may sicken, and so die.
—Shakespeare, Twelfth Night
Snark on the Side 