Many years ago we were sitting around the kitchen table. We were eating something good, but it couldn't have been entirely healthy. The kids began to read the ingredients on the labels of the jars and other containers on the table. That's when someone discovered that one of the condiments claimed it contained "flavonoids".
It only took mere fractions of a second for us to invent "tasterenes".
In that same vein, yesterday I discovered that craveomones were ruling my body.
If pheromones cast us into the arms of the opposite sex, and hormones sink that hook beyond any hope of extraction, craveomones can have a similar compelling and debilitating effect.
As I write this there is a faint subliminal thought twitching in my mind. It's just possible that I have more Neanderthal genes woven into my body than the average North American.
Here's how the craveomones can rule you.
Yesterday the higher more noble part of my brain got up at oh-dark-thirty to take the car to get the winter tires installed at a tire place on Doncaster off Yonge and just north of Steeles. I ended up trudging the three and a half kilometers back home on foot because I forgot to take some TTC public transit tokens with me (more Neanderthal genes at work).
In no time at all, I found myself in my home office on a longer than anticipated conference call. While I was on that call, the tire place called to tell Susan the car was ready. She appeared in the doorway of the office soon after to inquire, very politely, how she was going to get to work without the car.
That's when the MacGyver and Boy Scout parts of my brain kicked in to cook up a scheme to get the car back home in time for Susan to get to work. Using spare brain cells that weren't entirely consumed by the teleconference meeting, I put my earbuds on, put the iPhone on mute (and by the way, this iPhone commercial is completely captivating), slipped it into my back pocket, and made my way downstairs. I got into my riding gear, mentioned to my colleagues that I would be off the call for a moment, unplugged the earbuds, donned my helmet and switched on the Sena SMH10 bluetooth headset. With the meeting now playing in stereo in my helmet, I made my way discretely to the garage, hopped on the Vespa, and headed off to fetch the car. When I mentioned casually that I was now riding up Yonge on a motorcycle, my colleagues were incredulous and rather amazed. Yes, Sena headsets are that good.
By the time I got back home with the car, Susan was ready to head off to work. On the way, she dropped me off at the tire place so I could retrieve the Vespa.
That's how I ended up with the Vespa north of Steeles, that's how I managed to get to three o'clock without eating lunch, that's why I was getting really hungry, and that's when the craveomones kicked in.
As I headed south towards home, I raised my left index finger to my helmet and tapped the phone button on the Sena. "Bing" "Siri take me to the St-Lawrence Market". "Getting directions to the St-Lawrence Market" said Australian Siri (I like Australian Siri, she's exotic). Down Yonge to the 401, over to the Don Valley Parkway, down the DVP to the downtown exit, from Richardson to Eastern avenue, along Eastern to Front street, and bingo, there I was in practically no time at all at the St-Lawrence Market.
I had no trouble finding parking a short stroll from the market.
After wandering around the market like a hungry man on a mission, starting in the lower level and eventually making my way to the main floor, I finally found it.
The Carousel Bakery proudly claims to be the home of the "world famous" peameal bacon sandwich: the object of my PMS mission, and the item that put the crave in my craveomones. Technically it's a PM(b)S since the main ingredient is, after all, bacon. I didn't know if it was true, but I had heard very promising things about the PMS. With the craveomones running amok along every neural pathway between my addled, food-deprived brain, and my empty stomach, getting my trembling hands on a PMS seemed like the perfectly logical and natural thing to do.
It seems that Carousel's claim to world-wide fame is not so far-fetched. The esteemed chefs Emeril Lagasse and Bobby Flay apparently liked the PMS so much, they are among the devotees who came back for seconds. There's that, and the fact that Rick Mercer is also a fan.
But who cares what celebrities think? My opinion is really the only one that counts, n'est-ce pas?
Well I have to say, Emeril, Bobby and Rick are right! The Carousel Bakery peameal bacon sandwich is the bomb! No wonder it's world famous. Generous slices of scrumptious peameal bacon, with just the right amount of juicy mouth-watering fat on the edges, held together in a nice fresh-baked roll, it's delicious. I chose an iced tea to complement the PMS figuring that a bacon sandwich needed some kind of antidote as a precaution.
Carousel's world-famous peameal bacon sandwich is just the ticket to quell the craveomones. Remember that folks, should you be anywhere in a one hundred kilometer radius of the Big Smoke when the craveomones strike.
I should add that there are plenty of condiments on offer to complement the PMS, but as a first time craver, I thought it best to savour the sandwich au naturel. I'm reasonably sure some of the condiments had flavonoids in them. Who knows, some may even have contained tasterenes.
The sun was already getting droopy in the western sky. I thought I might have time to head up to King street west to drop in on Mountain Equipment Coop, and Lee Valley Tools to search for cool stocking stuffers for Christmas, but there was a metropolis of traffic heading north like so many lemmings, and I knew my time in the core was running out. I aborted that part of the mission, swung north on University, and set a course for home.