A couple of days ago I wrote what is, to my knowledge, the only food review in the history of everything to focus on smell. Those of you who maintain any interest whatsoever in what I get up to (i.e. you, grandma) will be pleased to know that I am about to push my maverick tendencies even further, and to write a review of an item of food I ate a couple of years ago. That’s right readers – we at Average Food Blog go to great lengths to add a dash of difference to your festering slice of mundanity pie. (We also go to great lengths to use hackneyed food-related terminology to convey really rather simple points.)
The item of food in question is the KFC Zinger Tower Box Meal (or something; I know it contains words like ‘zinger’, ‘tower’ and ‘box’.) The reason I haven’t eaten one for around two years needn’t concern us presently, since it would necessitate a tiresome discussion on the merits of vegetarianism. If you’re into that kind of thing you’re clearly used to spending your time in a more productive manner than reading blogs such as these.
And why do I choose, having not consumed one of these beasts for nigh on two years (incidentally, that’s the first time I’ve ever used the expression ‘nigh on’) suddenly to pontificate about them?
Well, you see the thing is, sometimes I don’t feel so great. Sometimes, in fact, I feel pretty bad. And whenever I feel pretty bad I think of the KFC Zinger Tower Box Meal (KFCZTBM). The reason for this is that there was a period of a couple of months, round about two years ago, when I would consume a KFCZTBM whenever I was at a particularly low ebb. I’m not quite sure why I did this. The amateur psychologist in me says that it is because I wanted to consume something that would be commensurate with the way I was feeling inside: useless, unneeded, unhealthy. And salty.
Each bite of the KFCZTBM felt wrong, yet I couldn’t help shovelling the thing into my pathetic little mouth. It was as though I was telling myself “you deserve this, you ridiculous piece of crap!” But the thing is, it didn’t taste bad or anything. In fact, I’d go so far as to say it actually tasted pretty good, and this transient, superficial goodness was doubtless what sated my desire to alleviate my pain, however temporary and illusory such a sating was.
I’ve written the first few lines of a poem:
My tears fell like leaves in autumn
as the corpuscles of the KFCZTBM
wended and twirled their way like amorphous shards
down my pathetic throat, into
the yawning chasm
of uncaring oblivion.
In other news: I’m thinking of getting one of them teardrop tattoos on my face.