This Little Piggie . . .

Dear You,

Too often, I react to the sight and smell of food in ways that make me think about Pavlov's dogs. This is especially noticeable around 5 in the afternoon, when it's time for a little something to stave off the pangs and brace myself for the evening to come.

And it is especially so when guests are arriving, the cork has been pulled (with another bottle standing by in support), and I'm under strict instruction not to think about serving the entree until "at least 6:30!"

Last evening it was "something new" for an hors d'oeuvre: Texas Caviar. Mix black beans, black-eyed peas, shoepeg corn, pimentos and jalapenos with garlic and shallots . . . I'm uncertain about the rest of it, and come to think of it, you're perhaps better off not knowing. I tucked in, scoop after scoop onto corn chips. An hour later when I finally lighted the grill, I really had little interest in the dinner to come, but gluttony will be served. I did my best, and that nice little chardonnay helped me along.

Shortly afterward, I took to bed. Then (I blush to provide detail; I'll mention abdominal rumblings, trips to the bathroom, thoughts of suicide) the hour or so of pleasure became several hours of counting my sins. Around 2 in the morning, I was finally able to grasp pen and paper to sketch out these remarks. Now it is morning, and I'm wondering what's for breakfast . . .