Some weeks ago I was chatting with a friend about the horrific economy.  He lives in San Francisco and unlike most gay men does not have one domestic bone in his body.  He eats out every day and doesn’t believe in cleaning.  Well, like ever.  We were on the phone and he said, “I just got back from Trader Joe’s.  I know I know … I went grocery shopping!”  To which I replied, “Whhuuuuutt?”  He said, “Yeah, I’m worried about The Depression.”  I said, “Seasonal Affective Disorder sinking in already?  Gloomy skies in San Francisco makes you want to grocery shop for the first time in 10 years?  I’m not following.”  He explained, “No. The Depression.  You know, the economy.  I’m trying to watch my spending.”

It is not as though I don’t realize the horrible state of affairs here in America.  Even if I didn’t witness poverty every day living in a city riddled with those without, the news is quick to point out how shitty things are.  He asked, “Do you think it’s affecting you?”  I had to sit back and think about this for a minute.

Living alone on a salary that is not as large as my looming school debt means I am well-aware of every cent I spend.  I live in a SFAH for pete’s sake.  I only buy enough groceries that I can carry at a time and choose very wisely between fruits and veggies, proteins and very, very few snacks (those Trader Joe’s Peppermint Jo Joes were an exception, obvi).  During these abysmal times, I am deeply grateful for my job and my health insurance.  I am grateful to have my bus pass paid for and my utilities included in my amazing $600 rent.  But when a girl wants to add pita chips to her Thanksgiving salad and sees they cost $5/bag (WTF?), I can’t help but notice that things are bleak.

For years I have watched those around me live well beyond their means.  The use of the word “need” surrounding the description of a new pair of shoes or the latest MAC eye shadow or even a new car is not something I have ever understood.  I have never been a frivolous spender.  In my working days in San Francisco, well before the reality of living on loans in grad school kicked in, I certainly went shopping on my lunch hour more than any girl needed to.  But now … I don’t know if my spending habits are a product of my poverty, or a product of reality.  As trivial as it sounds, living with so little in New Orleans and being surrounded by those with NOTHING (forget ‘living with less’ … those people have NOTHING) provided me a deep sense of understanding and appreciation for the word ‘need’.  Now I go to work and see patients suffering from grave illness due to poor health choices, not disconnected from their economic state of affairs.  I understand living without.  For years as I saw my friends buying homes with u-shaped driveways and living in a constant state of ‘keeping up with the Joneses’, I never, ever understood it.

My sister’s constant spending is a very glaring need to fill the emotional vacancies in her life.  I, thankfully, find ‘emotional deposits’ in relationships, time spent with friends, introspection and personal growth.  “Things” have never ever satiated my internal needs and for that, I am truly grateful.  I am not an emotional shoppper, and thankfully not an emotional eater.

Of the million things I am grateful for this harvest season, I am deeply thankful to have a good head on my shoulders.  A fairly adjusted sense of self.  A whole sense of being that transcends my spending, my grocery bill and thankfully my waistline.  Sure, the economy is in the crapper.  But each one of us chooses how we spend, on what.  How we teach our children to seek approval and desires through toys that last a season.  Through a trendy pair of jeans that won’t fit in a year.

I have all I need.  Sometimes a sparse fridge with tortillas and peperjack cheese.  A dwindling shoe collection that this recovering Imelda Marcos-in training never, ever thought she’d see.  Maybe all of us can use these times to reflect on how we spend our money and why.  Look within my dear friends.  Instead of feeding the instant need for now, the right-this-minute craving for the new Wii game, get your ass out and volunteer for people really living without.  I promise you that that investment will last for years to come.  Beyond the next style season.

So I’m officially 13 days into the meat fast (wait, 12 days cause I had that whole “lamb incident”) … and I am happy to report that all is well. Although I got the official go ahead by the Meat Watch: 2008 team (that’s you guys) that drunken behavior is exempt from punishment, my completely inebriated weekend in New York went off without a meat slip-up. I didn’t end up going to Coney Island (although I vowed to stay away from those dirty dogs anyway) and my company were all vegetarians so all was safe.

I have an obsession with taking pictures of food so I present to you my Sunday morning breakfast. Juevos Rancheros made directly by God and sent down from Heaven:

For those of you not so versed in comida mexicana, well … welcome to America firstly. Secondly, it’s only the best food ever invented. So on the top you see black beans, moving around the dish in a clockwise fashion you’ve got rice and that chunky white goodness is where the magic is. That’s sour cream on top of tomatoes on top of lettuce on top of tortillas with spicy green salsa on top of 3 eggs over medium. You Massholes have never experienced such sex in the mouth as Juevos Rancheros, I promise.

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Now that that’s over with, let’s get to the Operation: Meatless Month update. Although I have been doing ok with my veggie intake and trying to get kidney beans, cheese and hard-boiled eggs into my salads, I still craved more protein. I mean, I’m not lifting weights here and clearly I am not a growing boy but I certainly don’t want to have a Meatless Month turn into 400 lbs. of carbs later, which are useless calories and kinda defeat that whole “eating conscientious” thing. I wanted more black beans Sunday night for dinner (can you imagine?) but realized my SFAH didn’t come equipped with a can opener -silly me. So I went to the market last night to buy one and to stock up on some protein items that hopefully won’t send my cholesterol through the roof.

So remember that post last week about the pickle-flavored nuts and how stuff that’s flavored like other stuff is gross? Yeah well, I lost all sensibility in the store tonight. That whole “don’t knock it til you try it” shit won me over and I bought cancer meat. I bought a “meat product” that is fake shit and protein er something, and an assload of sodium all masked to appear like carcass. It’s the zorro of food products if you will. But here I am trying to be open minded and all that crap. Sue me.

So I went home and make some fake meat carcass that I am convinced will give me cancer. I mean, I can at least die knowing I tried the meat before it gave me cancer. (Don’t get all upset guys, I of all people don’t joke about cancer srsly, c’mon). But this shit is so manufactured, that it CAN’T be right for you, right? So I go home with zorro cancer meat, make some black beans and some Peruvian rice called Chimicurri rice (HEAVEN.ON.EARTH!) When living alone, sometimes these insta’meals are where it’s at and the Trader Hoes products always have less sodium.

Here are some shots:

Next are some action shots of the zorro cancer meat (it doesn’t look right, right? )

Mmmmm rice

And black beans with sour cream and a dash of Chalula. Heeaaven!

The verdict on the zorro cancer meat: FAIL!

HAVE YOU SEEN THAT PICTURE??

I hate being wasteful but I couldn’t stomach more than 3 bites of the weird texture chewy business. So I’ll keep eating beans and cheese and edamame and milk and whathaveyou for protein.

Zorro cancer meat is not right at all.