The odyssey
 kelly reid

The Catskills is lush and verdant,

swimming holes and smoky bonfires abound, but restaurant choices are quite literally few and far between.  So when I had to drop into the city recently I was like a kid in a candy store -- eyes wide like the tourist I suddenly was and (sorry NYers) clogging up the sidewalk with my snail’s pace looking at all the possible eating choices for my 36hr turnaround.  I should mention I’m about 6/8ths a bit of a snob about food and wine but sometimes cottage cheese and cantaloupe heralded as a “diet delight” with some bottomless watery coffee is all I want in the world.

To dinner number (1) I shared an Uber with an unprecedented 3 others and fairly crawled to my destination, almost undoing my plan to arrive early and bathe in the atmosphere of a busy restaurant with friendly faces.

My guest was running late which was just fine by me, the bartender poured a glass of wine and I ordered warm olives while I waited and chatted amiably with the waitress who had been cut early.  My friend arrives and we ordered all the seafood on the menu and I believe I drank a whole bottle of wine to myself - basking in the glory and convenience of an inexpensive cab after dinner.

And then here’s where the 2/8ths part of me comes out.  Despite eating some very terrific food and enjoying many very terrific drinks, in the Uber ride home the lesser known daughter of  primordial sea god Phorcys -- named Cheetos -- waved her cheesy salty puffed fingers at me.  

And I am absolutely powerless to resist.

Not without a little sway in my step, the luxuriously opened 24hr bodega on the corner with it’s bright lighting and sorry tiling delivers on a family size bag. I climbed into bed crunching down on twisty curl after twisty fatty curl.  

Like any good Siren she lulled me into eating half the bag and then proceeded to play havoc with my insides.  I woke up monstrously thirsty and practically assaulted the water purifier, disposing of the remainder of the bag and checking my bedding for the telltale orange dust.

Next time I’ll heed Homer’s advice and gastronomically tie myself to a mast somewhere and order surrounding shop-keepers to ignore my pleadings for the seductive and flame haired Ms. Cheeto.