I think veggie polony is gross. (I do feel compelled to note that I think conventional polony, made from crushed up dead animals, is even grosser). The idea that I have virtually NO IDEA what I’m eating, and that I cannot recognize any aspect of “food” in the product creeps me out a little.
As I was making a sandwich this afternoon, I wondered what exactly went into something so, well, squishy-looking. So I read the ingredients: oils, starches, flavourings, colourings. Admirable stuff.
“What are you doing to your body??” cried a voice in my head. “What kind of nutritional example are you setting for your children??” This was followed rather swiftly by another, chirpier voice, saying, “Oh do me a favour. I’m hungry. Pass the pickles.”
I wouldn’t call myself an advocate for something as processed and unnatural as polony, but it sure is a convenient standby to keep in the back of the fridge. Yes, the fact that it never seems to go off is worrying in itself, but when I have two boys howling, three work deadlines looming over me, a load of laundry to hang and we’re late for a playdate, I thank its synthetic socks (so to speak).
I don’t have a polony problem – I can stop whenever I want, honest! – and it’s not something I do every day. I think it’s important to eat things that you know are healthy and natural and good for you whenever you can. But I try not to beat myself up too much about the exceptions to the rule. The key, I guess, is moderation.
I still think polony is pretty gross. But, then, I think nose-picking is gross, and I do that sometimes when I think nobody’s looking. No harm done.