I Like New York in Autumn

I had a very healthy weekend, no binging, but rather jogging, no cheeseburger deluxes, but rather a large amount of salads. I felt all in all like a rabbit, but in a good way. However, come Monday at lunch I could not fight the craving for a huge, American meal. Studies show that food cravings are sometimes indicative of the body’s actual need for something. Salt, protein, sugar. My body obviously needed a stack of pancakes, eggs over easy, and six impressive slices of bacon. So I went two blocks over–whole worlds over–to the Sunflower Diner, on Third Avenue and 26th. I chose it because it distinguishes itself by being competent, not something to be undervalued in these times, and hey, I dig sunflowers. I also like the fact that few of the customers are refugees from Park Avenue South, as I am; they are locals, teens, senior citizens, sometimes a nanny with child. On Monday, a cold day, I sat at the booth nearest the door, so got the brunt of in-rushing air every time someone came in or left. But being an adult child of alcoholics, I am not likely to complain. Anyway, once my meal came, I was absorbed. The pancakes had not been smashed under a cruel spatula to dryness, as often happens in diners. And the bacon had generous amounts of both meat and fat. The eggs were delicate as lace, just slightly underdone. The orange juice was generic, but fine. If I had a digital camera I would have photographed it for you. I felt like a glutton, of course, which is what modern America is about. If only those kids in Ethiopia could order in. Sorry, Angelina! No offense! In any case, the meal, as comfort food meals by definition do, filled me and fulfilled me. This was by no means the best of such meals I have ever had. It was just what my body–what I–needed. We must find what comfort we can in life, when we can, understanding that it is fleeting, and not always good for our arteries. I waddled back to my cattle pen, warm and sated.