Spain, Day 15

Last Saturday, while walking through downtown Valencia, I spotted a yellow sign on a checkerboard background, and while I wasn't at an angle to read the word, I recognized it instantly as the emblem of Pans and Co. This discovery inspired a surprising nostalgia in me for my time when I used to drink Fanta de limon with my friends during snack time in Barcelona. I resisted an impulse to barrel in and order the first thing I saw off the menu, and I explained to myself that there was no need to succumb to such sentimentality. Nevertheless, I was gladdened to have seen it, and I enjoyed remembering past times, but I recognized that my time would be better spent, and my appetite better satisfied if I listened to the more grown-up part of my brain, which encouraged me to head towards one of the countless little restaurants, cafes, or bars that offered much tastier and more personalized treats. I admit to a moment of indecision and so I kept walking and the excitement of downtown Valencia overcame my desires to snack.

I pride myself upon that decision to avoid sub par food, no matter what sappiness if may have been fried in. I also prided myself on defying the European caricature of the American eater: slovenly and heavily reliant on fast-food or ready-made meals. It is therefore difficult to properly describe my disgust when I discover the people who are so eager to criticize my upbringing in Chicago and its "American culture," as they understand it, engaging in despicable acts of gastronomical treason.

With the hectic pace of life, I understand the difficulty of providing three meals a day for your kids, especially when the principal meal comes in the middle of the day. In a working household, scheduling the time and mustering the energy to prepare a satisfying meal while on your lunch break cannot be easy. Therefore, I understand why the custom has devolved into a half hearted shrug of a meal, sometimes. Other times, I would hesitate to consider some foods the basis of a meal at all.

For the record, 20 pieces of Chicken McNugget and three bottles of water for the kids squirming in the back seat falls into the category of non-meals described above. But when you're running from one hospital to another, checking up on patients, monitoring a surgery, having yourself examined, well, then I can commiserate. This does not excuse, however, that you purchased McNuggets and fed them to your kids, without even stopping the car.

Needless to say, when I experienced this, I wondered why I had signed up for this trip. Fortunately, we arrived home and I was relieved that there was considerable fuss to prepare a "real lunch," until I realized that that constituted throwing two frozen pizzas in the oven.

Horrified, I was grateful for the slices of fresh cheese and pate served as appetizers to our pizzas. My horror, however, has manifested itself in odd ways. Firstly, when we took a family trip to the grocery store yesterday, I was relieved that we were stocking up on real food, but nevertheless I took precautions to advocate for a cereal that I liked, just in case. Secondly, and perhaps more earth-shattering, I have considered taking up cooking for a little bit.