I was researching compound bases in an attempt to replace sodium bicarbonate, but there’s no shortcut to be found. Well, a few mild ones, but you’d be better off doing alkaline things elsewhere.
I had this kelp supplement for iodine, but then I inevitably stop because I don’t know if it does anything. One can acknowledge what you eat determines so much of your day and living, but I have to say I only notice the negatives. I guess all the positives are bludgeoned with a lacking sleep schedule.
But the negatives show, especially if you’re on some peanut butter binges. It feels strangely American to scoop three glops of peanut butter in a glass bowl to scrap at. Whether it’s a new low or an honest attempt at deconstructing the Snack delectable into its base elements, nevertheless with enough sludge you can feel it constrict the neck. The airways lock up, and the mucus hardens, ears pop – and depending on the quantity so a headache forms.
This has been a lukewarm battle for the last few weeks. Because you can power through the negatives, the same as the Hooter’s regular with jaundiced eyes and liver discharge that they attribute to the honest winnings of aging, even if the butter infused sauces are, without a doubt, a cardiac arrest slot machine. Still, sometimes I can’t even finish a glass bowl out of disgust and wonder why I subject myself to this. The answer is, naturally, there’s nothing else to snack on other than peanut butter.
You can find an excuse through chopping up celery and upgrading from the spoon, though the lock up comes all the same. It’s a 50/50 even if celery is in the fridge. After all, one could argue the pleasure of a snack is in its convenience. That you could delude yourself you’re getting something entirely time-free, even if it steals the hours through headaches, grogginess. By chopping up the celery, we lose even our delusion and split second decision justifications. This is a deliberate and indifferent self-destruction.
When the glass bowl is scraped, maybe with celery strands as remains, so I sit there in a modest contemplation and take note of what I’ve gained, other than more weight. Beyond the weight, so often I can’t register I even ate anything. And, honestly, I can’t say I even enjoyed it half the time.
There’s this idea that peanut butter and celery is enjoyable, but when you mix them together the peanut butter feels flat and greasy, and the celery has this airy crunch that, when combined, further flattening the peanut butter, one may as well be eating nothing but a novel texture.
It is especially in the emptiness of a scraped bowl that I wonder how long I should fast. Whether to redeem – or to at least fight the twitchy inclination to, however unenjoyable, load up another serving.
The second servings can rectify the embarrassed state of a wasted snack – seeing as the Snack is for enjoyment only, and if anyone tries to say anything else about it, so they’re hiding their rolls through a carefully crafted wardrobe. There’s no redemption in the snack other than to have it for the complete assertion of a modest consumer wealth. For the hell of it, for nothing else other than that you can.
But, of course, one will inevitably realize no cans can justify the empty bowl after, other than a mild shame, however healthy you want to say it is.
It is in these moments that everything else one could do, just for the hell of it, seems like an elaborate scam. And you may look up monasteries in the stupor, with a peanut butter smothered face and half-opened eyes staring back in the monitor’s reflection between page loads.
In short, peanut butter is the perfect product to infect your day. Because, if you do read the ingredients – to confirm that it is, in fact, pure peanut octane – so one would note the asterisks which, if you trace further down the label, mentions things like canola oil, sunflower oil. And let’s not ignore the Roasted right in front of the Peanut, even if Costco would brush it off as necessary.
To which I concede. It is necessary. I tried ordering raw peanuts off of Amazon and they taste like grass. The few attempts to eat the raw peanuts came with nausea, and I think peanuts are mildly toxic without doing something to them.
But see, if you put roasted sunflower oil peanuts in front of anyone, you’d still ask why. Why wouldn’t you ask why? Because you realize that peanuts are a scam if they have to be roasted to taste good. The roastings corrode its essence, and infiltrates one’s system, until pimples propagate a response, until one wonders if you have a peanut allergy after all.
My peanut daydreams and endgame all converge toward a boiled peanut canister in the backyard. The trouble with hot boiled peanuts around here is that the ingredients are a mystery, to add to the surprise, but I don’t want a surprise, I want to sleep at night. I neurotically don’t want to – by preserving the New Orleans Explosive Flavor – consume mystery overloaded omega-6 oil.
Nevertheless boiled peanuts are the end-game of any peanut-goer. You avoid the roast menace, and you get bean textures, and the simplicity snaps right into any honest idealism too: just some water, salt (optional), and a timer.
But until you get your own canister – of course, you could be adventurous with a crockpot, but the yield is laughable. I need at least two sizable ceramic bowls of boiled peanuts until I get to that comfortable dazed state. So one waits until the canister, or, well, one could argue this isn’t simple at all, because now you have to get your roaring bubbles in a 4 gal steel container. Maybe the crockpot is enough, but now you have to source some unshelled peanuts, wait for a seven day delivery, and find a plug to let it gurgle for 3 days more. Which is all doable if one is driven enough, but a spur-of-moment craving rarely can spark enough drive to follow through. The deliberate celery cutting is already a struggle – home boiled peanuts demand premeditation.
So, to get a peanut fix you get a glop of peanut butter in the bowl and accept the lowly state you find yourself in, until it registers for the tenth time that, if this wasn’t grinded down, you wouldn’t touch it at all, because roasting is a scam, but in the flurry of a craving, seeking a relief between information overloads, so you get your scoops and accept all the downsides to follow.
I’m not sure when my breaking point will come, but it will, and when it does, believe me, it’s like wearing weight vests. I’m just training for a non-peanut butter existence. Once unlatched, well, I don’t even know what will happen. Sometimes when I walk pass streetlights they flicker off and on – fully synced to my relative distance. Without peanut butter, who knows…