Excerpt from Chapter 9

Red Hot Blues are a blue corn tortilla chip that always made me feel better. They come in a bag wrapper with lots of reds (top and bottom) and filled in with a light yellow southwestern mural of Incan design and a transparent brick where you could see the crispy, spicy triangles sleeping. Made by a silly company called “Garden of Eatin,’” they are best used six months from now.

In the old days I could go to Ralph’s or Safeway and buy a party sized bag or two, and have enough chips for two days as long as I hid it from my roommate. This meant not only keeping it in the bottom drawer of my bathroom sink, but also drinking a cup of water before putting a chip in my mouth, to dull the crunch so that no one could here me chewing. Then I could keep them all for myself. Party-sized was a perfect name, because I didn’t go to many parties, but when I did, they never had enough chips for the party I was hosting in my belly. In my party, ladies did not drink free, but the band played until the host had indigestion and passed out from a sleeping pill just before dawn.

I liked that no one I knew from Folsom had ever eaten a Red Hot Blue chip. They were too healthy for my family, very LA. It said right on the bag “No genetically engineered ingredients” and that spelled D-I-E-T to the Hetherington family. So even though the calorie count was about the same, I knew that eating an entire bag of 240 chips in under 45 minutes made me just a bit more of a yuppie than the Average Joe. My chips are blue, and are not flavored to taste like Ranch dressing. They are made with real chili flakes, and organic corn and smoked tortilla yeast.

Putting a Red Hot Blue in my mouth felt better. I crunched away the days stress. It was like gnawing on my teeth, but I was awake and I got full. It was spicy so it felt slightly masochistic, but dulled just before I screamed by the sunflower and canola oils. I was both rewarding and punishing myself for being so present in my food addiction, and I knew it. I just didn’t have time to think about it. I was starving.

I knew it was bad for me, and I tried everything I could to only eat one serving of 15, but I’d have to use a measuring cup. I’d over serve myself anyway, then I’d say, “What the hell” and give myself another cup. Then another. Then I’d go for a walk to burn the calories. When I’d get home I’d see the bag still out and go make friends with it again…