Airplane food

Airplane food is something special. At least, I seem to have a special relationship with it. I await the delivery of the airplane food with great anticipation. I know that is will probably be foul. However, like pain, while one knows this to be the case, one cannot quite remember the full impact it will have; I never seem to recall how gross it can be. So, I wait for it. Then, it is coming! The trolleys bearing food are shuffling down the aisle! What will the trolley bring? A pasta? A casserole? The excitement mounts. Finally, it arrives. The moment of discovery. I open the little brown box and find- a label announcing a roast beef dinner. I experience the first check in excitement. Doubt assails me: how could a roast beef dinner be contained in this puny little container? I peel back the plastic cover and realise the worst. The mind, which has inexplicably been expecting eatable food, reels in shock. I use my fork to tentatively push the indistinguishable white objects around in he sticky brown sauce with vain hope of discovering an identifying characteristic. Nothing. It has come to this, the taste test. Ahh, I think, of course! Overcooked steamed parsnip sticks! Naturally. And these? The ubiquitous perfectly spherical miniature potato. Having taken care of these items, I gaze with disapprobation at the impenetrable brown goo. The fork tells me that something lurks below. It is the "roast beef". Upon tasting, I find that it is in fact, three slices of what was probably roast beef deli meat at one time. I don't like roast beef deli meat -it has a peculiar sheen. However, I must admit that it is better before it has been doused in brown sludge and microwaved for too long, as this seems to make it simultaneously slimy and tough. I decide against both the roast beef and the parsnip sticks as food. Having eaten the spherical mini potatoes with some reluctance, I turn to the dessert. It looks innocuous. Perfectly innocent. It calls itself carrot cake. I like carrot cake. I am pleasantly surprised. I have some. I swallow with difficulty. It is not carrot cake. It is Oil cake coloured orange and with a slight aftertaste of dusty cinnamon. I put the orange oil cake in the brown goo since they are probably close relatives and put it out of my mind. So, as usual, I eat the bun. The bun can be relied upon. I close up my brown box, push it away, and begin to look forward to breakfast.