Here's what I don't understand about salads: why is it impossible to construct one that fills me up? It can be ginormous, it can be covered in fried chicken strips--hell, it can be a slab of meatloaf resting atop a single leaf of lettuce. But if you call it a salad, I am definitely going to be hungry thirty minutes after polishing it off.
I know that's what people say about Chinese food, but I have never understood that because Chinese food usually involves good ol' rice, which fills me up just fine. It's only midday salads that leave me so hungry by dinnertime that I want to have one of those Fred Flintstone brontosaurus steaks with a multi-tiered wedding cake for dessert and, to wash it all down, a Big Gulp full of gravy.
I'm willing to entertain the notion that it's psychosomatic.
ELSEWHERE:
My reviews of Chicago Dramatists' Hickorydickory and Ludicrous Theatre Company's Sleeping with Straight Men are in the current Chicago Reader.
Comments