Guys, I'm sorry.
I know you do better for my patients overnight than I can during the day. Gerb, I appreciate your attempts to teach me to talk dirty in Tagalog. Michelle, thanks for the custard cakes and the joke about the sausage and bread and fish. Ester, you rock my world when you start IVs for me. Jay, you've pulled more folks back from the brink down in post-op than I can count. None of you complains about the schedule, or about the bigots you have to work with, or about the assholes that pepper your day. Along with the Indian and African immigrants and the occasional Slav or Russian, you make my hospital a fun, interesting place to work. I love you all.
But I cannot, cannot eat pork adobo.
I have tried. I like fried eggplant and little squiddy-squids for breakfast. I rock the lumpia whenever you decide to bring some extra. I'll eat anything that you put in front of me, really.
Except pork adobo.
Kill a chicken, pluck a parakeet, slay a sturgeon. Put it into adobo sauce or dry it and fry it and serve it up cold; I don't care. Just don't put pork in front of me, please, with or without that delicious white rice that I can't seem to cook myself.
I feel *so bad* for not liking what is supposed to be the summit of Filipino cuisine, at least according to my coworkers, who can debate for hours the relative merits of various recipes for it, all the while switching into and out of English at baffling speed.
I had a big bowl of the stuff yesterday for lunch. Don't get me wrong; I love the way it tastes. But after? Oh, my stars and garters, it was like trying to work out with a hangover today.
So no more delicious, soft, tender, perfectly-cooked, meltingly wonderful bits of pork in a tasty sauce for me.
I think I'll go on a four-day juice fast now.