My food dance is a happy one. Its source is absolutely one of a childhood spent too thin and not liking anything that wasn’t pizza or peanut butter. My most favoritest of favorite bosses pointed out my tendency to rejoice over food and I’m inclined to agree. It’s because I don’t like anything. I find foreign textures disconcerting and gag-some. Until 2007, all things spicy made me cry. And curse. And cry. But now, I love spicy food. (Of course, it’s the American version of spicy. Still, though.) Today, I ordered three take-out egg and cheese sandwiches (wondering why I’m all up on some sandwiches? Read my Girl with the Dragon Tattoo post). I ate one at work and saved the remaining two for later this evening. That means that all I will have consumed today is coffee, beer and three egg and cheese sandwiches. I’m going to be the very first person in 100 years to die in a first-world country of scurvy.