One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest

Less than 24 hours ago, I was lying in a hospital bed attached to a broken machine via a small, translucent tube that was devastatingly painful. The tube, in turn, was attached to a larger tube, which was attached to a thick plastic bag. In this bag held the medicine that was supposed to cure the severe bacterial infection that I had somehow introduced to my right foot. Drip. Wait five seconds. Drip. Wait five seconds. Drip... and so on for hours at a time. My arm was red, the IV refused to stay put, Dracula had woken me up at 5AM, which left me with a rather intriguing blueberry stain on my right elbow joint, as well as some splendid yellow sunshine bruising on the back of my left hand and my left wrist. I had developed a strawberry seed rash on my left arm... perhaps an allergy to the antibiotic, perhaps an allergy to the detergent, perhaps a remnant of the ridiculous itching at two o'clock in the morning... or perhaps it had something to do with the fact that it was about 90 degrees in the hospital room and I couldn't move my arm due to the lovely pink object injected into my left arm. Regardless, the most interesting hospital experience was the food. So, here I am, a native New Yorker, who has decided to create a blog to discuss the nuances of the 5 boroughs' cultural palate, and I start with hospital food in Westchester.

Perhaps it's because I've done the fancy, overpriced restaurant. I've done the expensive, I-want-to-marry-the-chef-right-here-right-now restaurant. I've done the hole in the wall, I've done the trendy and the touristy and the soon-to-go-out-of-business, but I have never, ever done the hospital bed. And so, since it is new to me, I feel obliged to start something new with something new.

First, there are waiters and waitresses. They walk around with a palm pilot and give you a list of options. They quickly jot down your order, plastic pen to plastic handheld device, and then move on to the next patient. While this is cool, it is not shocking. What's shocking is what arrives on your black, dishwasher approved black tray.

Sample Day:

Breakfast: Cheese omelet. 2 slices of bacon. oatmeal. fruit parfait. blueberry muffin. orange juice. coffee. milk. Really?

Lunch: 3 long, thin slices of roast beef in gravy. Fettuccine noodles. I turned down the broccoli and carrot combination as I had learned the difference between outside vegetables and inside water-disguised-as-vegetables. Angel food cake. Juice. Tea.

Dinner: New England Clam Chowder, Beef in sauce, vegetables, salad, roll, apple pie, coffee, milk, juice.

Snacks: Pudding, jell-o, and applesauce available upon request.

Am I here to get better, or am I here because I just happen to be below average pant size for the average American woman? That's a ton of food for someone who's training for a marathon. I was training for marathon television watching. Bed rest, foot up, tiny $7 a day television... and more food than I, a person who is known for excessive eating and has been told on numerous occasions that I should join Eater X and Joey Chestnut front stage, I, could not even come close to finishing the monstrosity that arrived on the giant black tray. I was amazed! Intrigued! Astounded! Especially considering I was visited by a dietitian on numerous occasions. Is this food here to help me get better? Or is it really a ploy to poison my, increase my cholesterol, and keep me strapped to a broken IV machine forever? I don't have an answer, but I do know that I'm not intending on returning to Lawrence hospital in Bronxville anytime soon. Wonderful, friendly staff. Tons of food (albeit not necessarily tasty). But me? I prefer my freedom to choose a restaurant.

So the journey continues. My goal? Travel around the 5 boroughs and surrounding area. Sample as many restaurants as possible--every ethnicity, every ranking, every type. Describe in luscious details the victories. Be blunt about the failures. Follow my passion. Demonstrate the beauty of my native city. And above all, live a little!